Indiana Jones and the Castle of Wolfenstein
by Tycoon126
Summary: Frau Engel is dead, the Ausmerzer is in the hands of the resistance, and the Second American Revolution has begun. Set Roth has uncovered the importance of the artifact, and its secrets may hold the key to winning the war. Secrets that are hidden behind a lost language, and buried in ancient ruins.. they need help from an archeologist- one with with a hatred of Nazis.
1. The Doorknob

**Chapter 1**

Like every night these days, William Joseph Blaskowitz found himself staring at a metal ceiling, unable to catch even the slightest glint of real sleep. It seemed that every time he closed his eyes, he would see _his_ face. The same dream, the same _nightmare_ , every single time. He would find himself pinned to the floor of that unspeakable laboratory, staring to the face of death itself. He had to choose.

 _"Captain Blazkowicz. Help me make a choice."_ The face utters, a voice filled with age and an unexplainable ominous tinge.

" _Which one, of these two varieties, would best support my research?"_ Death points to two men on each of his sides. On Death's the left was Fergus Reid. Blaskowitz's closest friend- living, that is. On his right, Probst Wyatt. The poor boy was only 17.

 _"I have inadequate room... for samples. Should you decline my appeal...I will put a scalpel to both of them and we'll be here all day!"_ Death punctuates this promise with a flick of his scalpel. There is no malice, no hatred, this has nothing to do with what either man had said or done. This was solely for Death's personal enjoyment.

" _I'll make things...simple. All you have to do... Is look, to the one, of which you would have me dissect."_ Speaks the head of Death itself.

 _No._

 _No._

 _NO!_

"William! William, wake up!" An angel reaches down from heaven, and pulls him from the depths of hell.

"William, are you okay? You were screaming in your sleep." Anya says. Such a caring and gentle voice.

After a few moments of panicked delirium, Blaskowitz finally remembered where he was. On Eva's hammer, a captured Nazi U-Boat. The headquarters of the resistance. Blaskowitz looked over at Anya. No, it wasn't just a boat or a base of operations. It was his _home_.

Blaskowitz caught his breath and decided to seek comfort from his fiancé."I… I had that dream again, Anya. Every night, it is always the same fucking dream." He spoke with an exhausted voice. B.J. was a tough man, probably the strongest that has ever lived, but even he has had his limits.

B.J. could see the look in Anya's eyes. He could see that his pain was hers, that she felt for him- she _loved_ him. The look in her eyes was all he needed to calm down.

"It's okay, William. Deathshead is dead- you killed him. You aren't on the floor, you are here. You are with _me_. I will always be here to keep you safe, and you me." Anya always knew exactly what to say.

This small space of safety and warmth and empathy with the love of his life was not meant to last forever, though, and it ended abruptly with the sound of someone running through the corridor to Blaskowitz's quarters. The door slammed open with a solid _CLANK_ and a man, concealed by the glare of the bright hallway lights, jumped into the room with urgency.

The man spoke, his voice thick with a moderate Scottish accent. "Blasko, get the hell out here! Grace's ordered an emergency meeting and you need to get your ass to the bridge in five minutes!"

Blaskowitz tossed the blanket onto Anya's side of the bed and kicked his legs out onto the floor. "What the hell, Fergus! It's half past four, what is so important that it can't wait two more hours?"

Fergus, having caught a glimpse of what another man should not see, covered his eyes with his mechanical arm while closing the bulkhead with his rea arm. "I don't know. You'll have to ask set."

W+J

"This is possibly the most important object in the history of the world! It is the crown jewel of Da'at Yichud, the culmination of my entire life's work!" Set Roth was more excited than Blaskowitz had ever seen him. He was standing at the map table in the center of the bridge, with most of the resistance leaders crowded around the edges of the table. In Set's hand sits the artifact Super Spesh had given Blaskowitz back in Roswell. As Blaskowitz and Anja walked to their spots at the table, Grace began to speak, impatience and tiredness conveyed in the sassy tone of her voice.

"Well Set, it must be really important for you to wake the whole ship at the asscrack of dawn. So tell us, what is it?" Grace inquired.

"This" Set began, pausing for emphasis, "Is a doorknob."

There was not a single face in that room that did not have the same gaping-mouthed, confused expression that one gets when they hear a person say something so rediculouse that it does not warrant a rational response.

"A doorknob. Your greatest discovery is a doorknob." Grace slowly spoke, as if speaking to a child.

Set's overexcited demeanor calmed, and his smile slowly fell into a more serious position. He collected himself, and responded to Grace's inquiry. "The discovery is not necessarily the doorknob itself, it is what the device is intended to open. Observe…"

Set's fingers moved across the artifact, pressing circles and lines across its decorated surface. Suddenly, to everyone's surprise, a blue light shined forth from one end of the cylinder, directly to the ceiling of the bridge.

"Ah, there it is. Just wait for a little moment for the picture to resolve" Set reassured, while setting the device on the table.

The beam of light quickly retracted towards the table, stopping in mid-air just three feet above the device. Then, the beam shot outwards to both sides, creating a rectangular screen floating in midair. On the screen was an archaic symbol, surrounded by writing in a language Blaskowitz had never seen before.

"Do you see that crest? That is an ancient symbol from Da'at Yichud's past. It is the sign marking this artifact as a creation of the Ya'Gaul brotherhood." Set spoke at breakneck pace, having been worked back up into his previous elation.

The rest of the room busted with excitement and curiosity, obviously interested in seeing what this old Jewish man has to say.

"Let me explain to you what the Ya'Gaul Brotherhood was. Ah, where to start, how do I explain this..." Set began to mumble in Hebrew, scratching his head in frustration. This lasted only seconds, though, before his head shot upwards and he turned to look strait at Blaskowitz.

"Hey shimshin, do you remember that, ah, spindly torque? The one we got from the Da'at Yichud vault and used at Gibraltar?" Set asked.

"A floating ball that can tear a bridge to ribbons in seconds? How could I forget that!" Blaskowits responded.

"Tell me, do you think that was a good weapon?"

"Heh, I'd say so."

Set pointed at Blaskowitz and said "Wrong! You are wrong, it was a horrible weapon, It was never designed for destroying anything, we just used it that way. I'm guessing that you also thought that armor you were wearing earlier was extremely protective, right? Wrong!" At this point Set's speech was almost too fast to fallow.

"Of course they worked, they were supposed to work, but they both shared a fundamental problem, and it is that they do not serve a real purpose. They were built simply to exist, to connect their inventors with God. Without an expressed purpose to be built to fight they cannot live up to their full potential." Set paused for a moment to catch his breath, and continued.

"That idea, that inventions should serve a practical, military purpose goes against everything Da'at Yichud believes. All of our most sacred beliefs. That is why the Ya'Gaul Brotherhood was created." Set paused to rub his eye. Blaskowitz noticed how tired the old man looked. He must have been awake for days.

"My parents used to tell me stories of Da'at Yichud's past, of the Brotherhood. Warnings, you see- warnings of what you mustn't do with the opportunities Da'at Yuchid brings. Nearly a thousand years ago, a man whose name I dare not speak, an elder in Da'at Yichud, desired to use the power of advanced technology to unify the world under the rule of a new order. He and his fallowers used their skills and resources to construct weapons of war and machines with the sole purpose of destruction." Set stopped for a moment to collect himself. It appears that the mere thought of such men brought him to anger.

"Eventually Da'at Yichud was able to contain the Da'Gaul Brotherhood, and all of their members were either killed or imprisoned. Yet, one question remains- where is their vault? It had to be somewhere! Somewhere hidden. In a place where you would need a map to find it, and a key to open it." Set pointed to the artifact on the table. "It was told that the vault was lost forever, but it appears that was not... entirely the case. This think must have been sitting in the Da'at Yichud vault under Roswell for centuries, waiting for the elder's decision to destroy it… or use it."

Grace spoke up, not just interested anymore but determined. "So you're telling me that this paperweight is the map and key to a whole stockpile of weapons?

Set appeared to be moderately offended by this suggestion. "Of course there are weapons! The best weapons that can ever possibly be made in a thousand lifetimes. Power armor, plasma rifles, railguns, forcefields, antimatter technology…" Set stops himself, seemingly experiencing a moment of self-reflection. "Horrible, horrible things. These are monstrosities, perversions of our duties to God. I understand why the elders waited until it was too late to use this key." Set is now clearly depressed, his head hanging low. "Had they used it sooner, the Nazis never would have won the war.

Fergus found a place to enter the conversation. "Well it might be too late for the last bloody war, but it is just in time for the next one. With a revolution in America, we will need all the help we can get!"

"What are we waiting for? We have the map, why aren't we heading there at full speed right now?" Anya questioned Set.

"I have to admit, it is not as simple as that." Set responded. "This isn't like the vault with the spindly torque, it is not a matter of walking in to a well-maintained meeting hall were we know exactly where we are and what to do. If this vault even still exists, it will be a dangerous place indeed. And then, there is another minor issue"

"Which is?" Grace asked.

"I can't read this," Set says as he motions toward the screen.

Fergus struck out at set with anger. "You can't read it? You're the member of Da'at Yishud, you knew how to read the writing on the walls of that other vault!"

Set, speaking calmly, answered his inquiry. "For one, it is not written in simple Hebrew. The Da'Gaul Brotherhood was a fundamental sect, so their work is written in Aramaic. And Aramaic was used more commonly a thousand years ago, so it is coded as well. I would have to learn to read Aramaic, and then I would have to break the code. By that time it will likely be too late for the supplies anymatter."

"So what do you suggest we do" asked Bombate, speaking for the first time of the meeting.

"We need a specialist. We need someone with experience in using maps, in exploring dangerous ruins, someone who can read Aramaic," Set pauses. "Basically we need an expert archeologist. A well-educated, experienced archeologist without any loyalty to the Nazis."

At this, Fergus straitens his back. Blaskowitz can tell from the look in his friend's face that he knows something. "I think I have an idea of who that might be." Fergus then ran into Grace's room and pulled out a file box.

"Grace, have you read all of the files on our list of active resistance connections?" Fergus asked as he placed the box on the table.

"I have, and I think I know exactly who you are thinking about. His file is right over here…" Grace moved towards Fergus, looking into the box and rummaging through the files.

"What is this all about? Who are you looking for?" B.J. asked.

Fergus, leaving the searching to Grace, began to explain the situation to the rest of the resistance fighters. "During the war, the Kraisau Circle was working with the OSS, and had contact with all of the Allie's spies and secret agents. There was one man in particular; he was a double agent working for the US. He was given a rank in the SS paranormal division and he actively kept the Nazis from getting too far in their research. He was one of the few reasons the allies held on as long as they did."

Fergus was interrupted by Grace. "This is the wrong box, this one is for inactive connections. I put the active files in my desk drawer." She ran into her room, allowing Fergus to continue.

"The OSS burned all of their files regarding their active spies just after America surrendered, so his cover was never blown. He was still working for us when he retired from SS service." Fergus slammed the table at the end of his tirade. "Which means he probably still works for us, if we can get to him!"

"Set said we need an archeologist" Bombate explained. "This man doesn't sound like someone who digs in the dirt."

"That is actually pretty interesting. Before the war he was considered to be the greatest archeologist in the world. He knows a dozen languages- including Aramaic- he has a vast knowledge of ancient history, and he has explored more dangerous ruins than anyone can count!" Fergus finished.

Set, rubbing his chin, gave his thoughts, "If he is as skilled as you claim, and he is willing to work with us, he might be exactly what we need."

Grace, with a victorious gate, walked to the table with a file in her hands. "Then we have found our guy" She said, as she laid the file on the table and opened it. Blaskowitz leaned to his left so he could read the file:

Agent Name: Colonel Henry Walton Jones, Jr.

Born: July 1, 1899

Service number: (redacted)

Undercover identity: Obersturmführer Hans Josef Schneider

Description: Col. Jones is an undercover agent in the SS Paranormal Division. His expertise in archeology allows him to pass for a German professor of history, which granted him his officer commission and access high-level position in the heart of Nazi occult research. He is currently the head of the Nazi archeological team at castle Wolfenstein, and is passing valuable research regarding German discoveries to the OSS and inhibiting other research efforts within the facility.


	2. The Director

**Chapter 2**

"And over here, we have a diorama depicting the savage behaviors of the American Indian before they were tamed by American explorers" the director exclaimed, pointing to the display. It depicted several men with blood-red skin, faces with inhuman contortions, and covered in mud and filth. They are dressed in deerskins and are in the process of bludgeoning a white man in a stereotypical cowboy outfit.

In perfect German, the director continued. "Lacking intelligence and civilized manners, they used primitive stone tools and branch clubs in the hunt for their favorite pleasure, alcohol- as well as so fill their insatiable lust for innocent Aryan blood."

 _Bullshit,_ he thought to himself.

Motioning to the tour group, composed of various mid-level military commanders and their families, the director led them to a display counter filled with several dozen stone tools. "Here are some examples of their substandard tools that were recovered by German archeologists. As you can see, they are crudely made, as the apes were incapable of proper design."

 _Any undergraduate could tell they were made with modern tooling and artificially aged._

"And over here, you can see examples of German artifacts from the times when noble Aryan men walked these lands during the Ice Age. As you can tell, they are manufactured with such German precision that they are still in perfect shape, even twenty thousand years later." The director held the arrow, turning the shaft in his hand. "Demonstrating that, even twenty thousand years ago, Aryans were still superior to where the Indians were only a hundred years ago."

As the director returned the arrow to its position, he examined it. _Obsidian arrow head, oak shaft, turkey feather fletching… this one is an Indian arrow._

The director turned back to the awaiting crowd, and addressed them once more. "Unfortunately, this concludes the tour for now. The "Terrors of Capitalism" exhibit is unfortunately under renovations, but feel free to return to any of the other halls you have seen on this tour. Any questions?"

All of the children in the group raised their hands, and the director chose the tall blond boy at the front to ask first. "Back in the Untermench skeleton exhibit, all of their skulls looked so tiny, how did they function with such small brans?"

 _The student must be referring to that sick monstrosity that Dr. Müller made from one of his test subjects._

"The fact is, they didn't. Jews, blacks, and indians alike all have tiny brains and extremely low intelligence as a result of their inferior genes. They dragged humanity down for ages, and only made it as far as they did due to their trickery and Aryan kindness." The director responded, remembering to recite his lines.

Several children put their hands down, as their question had been answered, but the last one- a short blond girl- still had her hand up. The director called on her. "Yes- what would you like to know?"

The shy girl giggled, and then began. "You said that the Americans were mostly Aryan too, so how did they lose The Great War?"

This question hit the director like a bag of bricks. It took years of practice in hiding his true feelings to avoid embarrassing himself in front of ten soldiers of the Reich. _Why did we lose._

"They lost The Great War for one simple reason: democracy. Rather than embracing their Aryan strength and uniting as one race, they instead allowed the Untermench to tear themselves apart. They let the Jews make their guns and rule their government, they let the blacks build their weapons, and they let the anarchists tear down their moral to the point where they surrendered before the war was truly over. It is not enough to be Aryan, you must act Aryan- you must be pure of heart and separated from all physical and ideological filth. The Americans may have been Aryan, but they were not German." He told the child.

 _She can't be more than seven. What kind of abomination will this child become?_

"If there are no other questions, you are free to explore the museum. If you need me, I will be in my office, which is marked on the map in your brochures." At this, the director turned left, taking the path to his office.

 _What have you done with your life? Is this what you want to do until the day you die?_

The director weaved his way through the exhibits.

 _What are you? The director of a fake museum?_

He passed a model of an Indian teepee, crooked and painted in what appears to be human blood.

 _Indians weren't stupid. A proper teepee should be perfectly straight and decorated with elaborate design._

He passed a mock-up of a western bank, with a caricature of a Jewish man stealing money from a farmer.

 _The windows are wrong, those clothes look like they came out of a cartoon, and nobody ever carried pillowcases with dollar signs._

He climbed up the grand staircase, observing the Revolutionary war painting on the far wall, depicting valiant German hessians fighting American rebels, with British soldiers fleeing and the patriots killing surrendering soldiers and civilians alike.

 _Whoever painted that never read a single historical text in their life._

Finally, the director stepped to his office, the door centered in a prominent position along the balcony. Inside, his desk awaited him. He allowed himself to sink into his chair and observed his office.

The office was large, fitting for the director of the Grand Colony Museum in Berlin, capital of the Greater German Riech. The floor was made from the finest wood, the area in front of the desk decorated with a fine 17th century Persian rug. The wall to the director's left was lined with a long glass cabinet, filled with various rare artifacts from across the world. To his right, two grand windows overlooked the Museum Courtyard, lined with seven halls holding artifacts from the other colonies around the world. Between the windows were beautiful oak filing cabinets, filled with ancient manuscripts. On the opposite side of the office from the door, behind the desk, hung a massive portrait. The director stood tall, dressed in his full Waffen-SS dress uniform, his chest decorated with a dozen medals and his collar insignia showing the rank of Obersturmführer. He is flanked by a statue of the German eagle and the flag of the Reich.

 _I used to be an explorer, a scientist. I found real artifacts, I learned real things and I learned what actually happened. What have I become? A propaganda mouthpiece of the Reich!_

The director turned his attention to his desk. He kept it clear, leaving only a telephone, an intercom, a small display case, and his reading glasses. He selected the case and opened the lid observing the contents. An SS service star, the iron cross, medal of valor, and many others. These weren't what he wanted to see, he had no care for any of them. Instead, he felt inside the case for a small knob, allowing him to remove the top case and view the contents of the secret compartment.

Inside of the case were his real momentous, the only possessions he actually cared about. A small silver cross, a gold coin, his father's old diary, and his favorite- an American medal of honor. He selected the medal and held it in his palm.

 _Why did we lose. I did everything I could possibly do. I sacrificed my life, my career, and my friends… and for what? To run a Nazi museum in fuckign Berlin, preaching Nazi lies to Nazi children, while being known as a fucking goddamn Nazi?!_

Dr. Schneider clenched the medal in his fist, his eyes closed.

 _That's what I am. I'm a Nazi. I'm a failure, and a Nazi._

He packed away his mementos with methodical hands, made steady by decades of practice categorizing fragile materials.

 _This didn't have to be this way._

The director returned the case to its position, and opened the left drawer of his grand desk. From it, he pulled his officer's luger, always loaded and kept on hand. He turned it in his hand, contemplating placing the barrel against his temple.

 _It doesn't have to continue. I can end it all now, so fast. Wouldn't be the first time I killed, just the last._

The buzz of his intercom brought the director's focus back to his job.

"Dr. Schneider, a guest is here to see you." The robotic secretary's voice sounded.

Schneider quickly returned his pistol to the drawer. "Who is it?"

"Obercomander Vogel, sir."

This brought panic to the director. Why would Vogel wish to see him so suddenly and without warning? "Send him in" the director commanded.

Obercomander Vogel was the head of the SS-Paranormal division, and was the epitome of a German officer. He stood tall, his hair was blond and his face was perfectly sculpted. His eyes were blue, and a single glance from those eyes showed a man incapable of feeling petty human concepts such as empathy or kindness. Behind his otherwise friendly exterior lied a truly inhuman entity.

"Heil Hitler" Vogel greeted Dr. Schnieder, his arm raised in salute.

"Heil Hitler" Schnieder responded. "What brings you here, good friend?"

Vogel grinned, relaxing his posture slightly. "Unfortunately, it is more of the same. I'm having trouble with a particular research project, and I need someone with a…" Vogel paused. "Special touch."

"I'm sorry sir, but I am retired. I'm certain that you can find some young researcher more qualified than me" Schnieder replied, waving his hand. "With eyes like these I would be liable to mistake a coin for a pebble."

"Actually friend, this is no ordinary back-woods dig site, and we would not be digging coins. No, this will be just like the good old days." Vogel persisted. "We would be going back to Castle Wolfenstein."

 _No. Can it be? They found it? I must have missed something…_

"I'm sorry sir, but I simply can't. I have duties to the museum- exhibits to design, artifacts to sort, officers to guide… I can't just leave." Schneider responded. "I have a career here…"

Vogel's warm smile instantly turned into a sharp scowl. He pressed a button on his radio, and the doors slammed open, six German soldiers in full battle gear stormed into the room, leveling their weapon's at the director's head.

In English, Vogel spoke. "I'm afraid you have no other choice, Dr. Jones."


	3. The Museum

**Chapter 3**

"Tell me why we are sending the most wanted man in the entire world into the heart of Berlin?" Anya asked, her voice filled with both frustration and worry.

"It's the last thing they would ever expect!" Grace joked, a smile running across her face. "C'mon girl, its ol' 'Terror Billy' we are talking about here. You could place him in a room with a hundred Übersoldaten and he would come out the other end asking for a sandwich. Besides, he ain't super recognizable at the moment…"

"You got that right" Blaskowitz interrupted, entering the command deck from the main hall.

Everybody at the table turned to get a good look at him, and aside from his wall-of-muscle physique, they could hardly see their friend in the man standing before them. Set had done extensive surgery on B.J.'s scar, leaving his face in pristine smoothness. He had grown a beard as well, covering his jaw and upper lip in a thick dirty-blond coat.

"Damnit Blasko, yah only stopped shaving yesterday and you look like a bloody wolf," Fergus noted. "And I can't even cut anything with this damn arm…" he mumbled, rubbing his whister-strewn chin.

Anya walked up to him and smiled, "you look handsome darling, but are you sure you want to do this?"

Blaskowitz held her hand. "All I have to do is walk into a museum, talk to the director, and set up a meeting with him after hours. It's not as if I am recovering launch codes from a Nazi lunar base or charging into a nuclear wasteland."

They both laughed at his comment, but they were shortly interrupted by Horton slamming his fist on the table.

"If the two of you are done canoodling, you got a briefing to attend to" he quipped.

Blaskowitz let go of Anya's hand, and approached his position at the table. "Okay then, let's hear it."

"All right then, compared to what I have had you do over the last few weeks this is going to be easy. A walk in the park" Grace began, passing files across the table to the various members of the resistance leadership.

"As you know, our target is a certain Colonel Henry Walton Jones. Before the war, he was one of the greatest archeologists in the world. He studied ancient ruins and collected artifacts everywhere from Syria to Peru. He also had a lot of run-ins with the Nazis before the war- most of the files are classified, but it is safe to say that he holds no loyalty to the Reich." Blaskowitz nodded along while reading the mission file that had been prepared for him.

"In 1943, after your report from what you saw in Castle Wolfenstein," Grace pointed at Blaskowitz, "he was sent as an undercover operative in the SS paranormal division, where he attained the rank of Obersturmführer within months. When the war ended, he was still in place, and according to some of Becker's old records, he is still operating under the identity of 'Dr. Hans Josef Schneider.'"

"Now, 'Dr. Schneider' is the director of the Grand Colony Museum in Berlin, where he directs tours and puts that sharp brain of his to waste," Grace said with emphasis on the last syllable. Getting him out should be a piece of cake- just pay to enter the museum, follow the signs to the Director's office, and ask to see him- the standard OSS code phrases should still apply. I know this is below your level, we're sending you because you're the only white boy on this sub with a passable German accent."

"Ich werde dich nieder (severe misstranslation of 'I won't let you down')," B.J. Replied.

"Good now. We are coming up on the Denmark Straight, so you better get to the helicopter. Oh, and one more thing- we are not expecting trouble, and you can't exactly fit that giant laser of yours in your underpants, but you should take a pistol just in case."

With this, Blaskowitz gave her the thumbs up and left with Fergus for the hanger. _It's nice to get a break sometimes, but I hope there's a more dangerous mission after this. Can't go too long without killin' Nazis, I might get bored._

W+J

 _This is the most disgusting thing I have ever seen._

As Grace had said, getting in the museum was downright boring- after paying ten Riechmarks at the front entrance the guards just let him walk through the front doors without a word. What he hadn't prepared for, though, was the contents of the museum itself. Strewn across the walls of the main hall were artifacts from America's past, all neatly packed into pristine cases and labeled with such thick propaganda that it would make an OWI agent blush.

The overall complex that B.J. had found himself in was truly enormous, covering about a dozen football fields. The complex consisted of over a dozen buildings in a vast courtyard, each of them dedicated to a different section of the Reich; Deutsch Nordafrika, Falangisten

England, Deutsch Südasien, Südamerika, and Zukunft des Weltraums, amoung others. The largest building, set at the end with an imposing facade overwatching the entire complext, housed a monument to the prize of the Reich: Amerikanische Kolonien- The American Colonies.

As Blaskowitz walked through the Museum, he coud not help but apreciate the scale. The main hall itself was over a hundred yards long, and the sides branched into dozens of halls. According to the map B.J. had taken from the entrance, he could see that these halls all connected to each other, creating a full tour through American history.

On his far left, he could see a hall dedicated to the American 1920's. He could see several Germans marveling at the Ford truck on display in the center, viewing it in the same way one would view a dinosaur. On his right, there was a Sherman tank standing next to a Panzer X, in a hall labeled 'Futility of the resistance.' It appeared to be an entire wing of the museum dedicated to comparing American and Nazi technology.

 _I told you its past your time. Your childhood's ancient, too long ago to remember. America… How can we lead a revolution for an idea that's collecting dust?_

As he moved his way past a tour group full of children, he spotted an interesting display case labeled "The Crimes and Execution of Captain Blaskowitz," its shelves empty and its windows covered with a "coming soon" banner. At this, he chuckled.

 _They really dropped the ball with that one._

At the end of the hall stood a grand staircase beneath a massive painting, and B.J. determined from the brochure that the director's office should be up the stairs and at the end of the hall. Before he could take a first step, however, his musings on the façade surrounding him were silenced by a deafening BOOM!

Blaskowitz quickly turned to identify the source of the sound at the other end of the second floor. A large, important-looking door had slammed open, and a Nazi officer walked out, shouting back into the room. B.J. could see bodies lying on the floor of the office, evidence of a tough fight, but his attention was drawn to the two soldiers under the officer's attention, dragging an unconscious man into the hallway. The man was dressed in a classical suit and tie, and, aside from the Nazis holding his shoulders and the handcuffs on his wrists, he looked like a very important individual.

"Shit!" He interjected, running his way up the rest of the stairwell.

"William? Are you okay in there?" Anya asked over the radio.

"The damn Nazis got to him first. I guess I have to do this the hard way." Blaskowitz looked at the pistol as he pulled it from his coat, noting that he only had one magazine of ammunition. "Next time" he said, cocking the pistol, "I am bringing my fucking laser."


	4. The Hard Way

**Chapter 4**

Decades of fighting had sharpened Blaskowitz's senses and hardened his wit, turning him into a truly unstoppable force. When he reached the pillar at the top of the grand stairwell, he leveled his gun with a precisely calculated plan of attack.

The second floor of the Museum was a walkway running around the edges of the great hall, lined with doorways and separated from the drop by ornamental railings. The opening to the hall below did not extend the entire length of the building, but cut off after 60 yards to a wall lined with offices. In the center office, he saw his target being dragged out by a group of four Nazi soldiers and an officer.

The two Nazis dragging his target were armed with SMGs, and B.J. reasoned that it would take them time to drop the man before they could fire back. The two standing at the Officer's side were carrying Sturmgewers, and were at rapt attention.

Normally, Blaskowitz would shoot the officer first, to prevent him from calling backup, but he only had his pistol on him- at this range those soldiers would tear him to pieces with their rifles. He rationalized that taking them out first would negate the immediate threat, and then he would take out the officer. The two soldiers with the SMGs would be more difficult, but if he shot while running he would likely be able to mangle them by hand before they could bring their guns to bear.

As soon as his gun was in position, he fired two shots. The first shot tore through the soldier on the right's head, and the second hit the soldier on the left square on the neck, decapitating him. Blaskowitz sprinted towards the next pillar, eyeing the officer as he ran.

The officer, obviously a seasoned veteran, wasted no time with panic: he calmly reached towards his waist… and pressed his belt buckle. This confused Blaskowitz, but he gave it no thought- he was in positon. He opened fire with a single pull of the trigger, releasing all three bullets with a tat-tat-tat.

What happened next shocked Bloaskowitz. For a fraction of a second after he heard the shot, the officer was surrounded by an electrical-amber bubble, which dissipated as soon as it came. B.J. held himself back from another sprint, steady behind the first pillar, and fired again. This time he could see the bullets, intended for the officer's temple, ricochet harmlessly off of the bubble and embed themselves in the ceiling above him. _Shit_.

"Alarm! Alarm! Terroristen auf der zweiten etage!" The officer called into his mic, the sound transferred through the speaker system of the entire museum. The door on the left side of the far wall opened, and three SMG-armed soldiers came out, their guns leveled at B.J.'s position. They opened fire.

Blaskowitz quickly moved behind the pillar to avoid the gunfire. He looked over the other side and saw the officer's group pulling the director through a side passageway, sealing the entrance.

 _Wait for the reload…_ Suddenly, all three soldier's guns went silent, their magazines spent in the prolonged burst. _Idiots._

Taking full advantage of the opportunity, Blaskowitz turned to face the soldiers and jumped over the railing to the floor below. As he fell, he fired his last three shots at the soldiers, blowing the head off the first but missing the other two. Blaskowitz rolled as he hit the ground, and as he came to his feet he found himself facing down the barrel of a pistol, held by a mid-fifties, out-of-shape man in civilian clothing.

He didn't even need to think of the next step. He bent his head to his right, causing the civilian's shot to pass harmlessly by his ear. He then threw himself at the man, grabbing his face and gouging the eyes with his fingers. As Blaskowitz hit the floor, he slammed the man's head to the ground, flattening the back of the skull. With the assailant dead, Blaskowitz grabbed the man's pistol, dropping his as the magazine was spent. As soon as he touched the weapon, he knew that it was not simply a tool, but a work of art- its grip was custom, and the barrel was engraved with intricate design. This gun had a story behind it.

"Daddy?"

Blaskowitz heard a young girl call out, and he turned to face her. The girl was standing just five feet from B.J., a look of horror on her face. She could not have been more than eight years old, and she had just seen something beyond the realm of her darkest nightmare.

"No…no...no…"

Come to think of it, Blaskowitz could see that the museum was far more crowded than he initially thought, as most of the patrons must have been exploring the branching halls. He did not have much time to consider the thought, however, as he could see the guards from the front entrance pushing their way through the moderate crowd, and he assumed that the two surviving soldiers from the second floor must be making their way to the railing. He had to move.

Blaskowitz turned and ran his way to the hall closest to him, the one dedicated to the war. He ran past the Sherman tank, and turned a corner towards the side of the building, as he saw that the walls were lined with vents and maintenance hatchways he could use to intercept the Officer.

When he turned the first corner, he saw a display that caught his eye. A glass case not five feet from him held a collection of German and American rifles from the war, as well as ammunition boxes.

 _They can't have been that sure of themselves._ Blaskowitz slammed the butt of his pistol into the case, shattering the glass. He grabbed the Sturmgewer 1946 and checked the action, as well as the magazine. _Real, clean, untampered, and,_ he removed the magazine, _fucking loaded. These people will never cease to amaze me._

Blaskowitz grabbed the nearest ammo bag to him, and turned around to face the soldiers chasing him. As he turned the corner, he saw two guards who seemed to be investigating the bottom of the Panzer.

B.J. switched the rifle to full auto and shot both men precisely in the chest, with a short burst in each of their chests. They fell to the ground, unaware of what had hit them. _They must have toned down the rate of fire in the newer models, I wonder why?_ He thought as he returned to the main hall. It appeared that most of the civilians had fled, either to the exit or to the exhibits on the other side of the grand hall.

"Anya, things have gone to shit here. The Nazis have the Colonel, and they dragged him through a side passage on the second floor. They have some sort of force field technology," Blaskowitz reported through his earpiece.

"Passageway? I think I saw something on the schematics, give me a second to go over them, I'm certain there is a way to catch up." She replied.

As B.J. walked through the hall once more, he saw that there was a single civilian that did not evacuate; the girl whose father he had just killed. She was lying on top of his body gently sobbing. Blaskowitz turned away, and began to jog to the stairwell. That girl really got him in his heart, but he could not let that distract him. _You've killed fathers before. Probably half of all the Nazis you've killed, this isn't the first time- just the first time you saw it with your own eyes…_

He was half way up the stairwell when he heard Anya on the radio once more. "Okay, it appears that he is headed to the underground garage. You won't be able to get through the same way he did, but you should be able to simply walk there. It's just on the other side of the road from the America building," she said to him.

"Roger, on my way now," he replied as he turned and went back down the stairs.

"Oh, please be careful out there."

"I'll be home for dinner. I'm thinking a nice plate of spaghetti, some candles, we can use Fergus' spare sheets as a decorated tableclo…" B.J. was interrupted by the sound of six _Ü_ bersoldaten forcing their way through the front entrance, their titanic bodies crushing the doorframes. B.J. Instantly knew that he could not deal with them, especially with the child in the way. "About that escape plan, can you reach the garage through any air vents?"

"Of course, there should be a janitor's closet on the second floor, second door on the right. Is there something wrong?"

"Nope" he said, circling the top of the stairwell and narrowly avoiding three diesel charges. He opened the second door and jumped into the room, closing and locking it behind him.

The room was hardly a closet. It was over twenty feet on each wall, and it was filled with shelves and shelves of cleaning supplies. Blaskowitz progressed to the back of the closet, where he saw a workbench that the janitorial staff must have been using to repair damaged equipment. On the table he found a small laser torch, and in a box next to the table was a rolled up paper which, when B.J. unraveled it, was a map of the ventilation shafts for the entire complex. _Why do they keep these things out in the open? It is liable to fall into the wrong hands._ B.J. then rolled the map and placed it into his pouch, and he grabbed the torch. The vent was beneath the desk, and a few seconds with the torch opened the metal grate, allowing him to crawl through into the ventilation system.

Remembering what he saw on the map, Blaskowitz screamed internally- he would have to crawl for nearly half a mile, and then fight his way through a basement complex crawling with a hundred soldiers on high alert. _This is going to take a while._


	5. Perspective

**Chapter 5**

Untersturmführer Heinrich Heydrich of the SS-SeebattallionKorp was set for to have the best week of his life. After a four-year tour pacifying terrorist cells in the south Pacific, his Zug was finally back in Berlin, guaranteed to five months of leave and a free military ticket to travel to any of the world's vacation spots- but the Lieutenant was tired of tropical beaches, and he had somewhere else in mind. That is, if he could actually get there.

"Sir, wake up! The captain turned off the alarm so that his sailors could nurse their hangovers. Everybody else is gone!" Heydrich's first Sargent told him in his bunk, shaking his shoulders.

Lt. Heydrich opened his eyes, the light from the LED light in the U-Boat blinding him. "What the hell Jans, what time is it?" He asked his friend.

"Half past eleven, sir."

At this, the Lieutenant jumped out of his bunk, knocking Sgt. Jans over in the process. "God damn it, watch where you put those Yankee feet of yours."

"Wow Jans, so original," Heydrich said, reaching over to pull Jans to his feet. "Get up, and get packed. I expect you to enjoy your vacation."

"All my stuff is in this duffel bag, just wanted to wake you up before I leave" Jans said, motioning to a stained bag by the bulkhead.

"Then get out of my face. That's an order Sargent."

"Yes sir. Heil Hitler!" Jans saluted as he left the chambers.

"Heil!" Heydrich called back, turning his attention to his bed.

Thankfully, Heydrich had already packed most of his clothing and personal effects, so all he had in order to leave was dress in his off-duty uniform and make his bed, tasks that took only a few minutes. As he turned to leave, he remembered one last detail. _Of course, how could I forget?_ He thought.

Heydrich opened the small drawer in the dresser by his bunk and removed the locket. He opened it and stared at the picture within. It was a family photograph taken just before his mother died. Heydrich, his mother, and his sister were there, as well as his step-father, standing tall and proud in his SS-Gestapo uniform. _I owe him everything_.

More than just a phrase, it could not be more truthful. When the bomb dropped on New York and the Nazis invaded, Heydrich was just ten years old. He could remember the flash, and the shockwave destroying his home and turning the sky black with soot and ash, and set the streets on fire. His father had died five earlier in the War of Liberation, so it was just his mother and him alone. He surely would have died if it weren't for Alfred.

Obersturmführer Alfred, a military police officer operating in New Jersey, took a liking to Heydrich's mother, as well as an interest in the boy himself. Over the years Alfred had raised Heydrich as his own son, teaching him the ways of the Germans and using his connections to get him in the best Military academy in the entire Reich. Heydrich even chose to change his name, to severe any connection to the father he had never even met.

Heydrich was brought back to reality when he reached the entrance to the mess hall. The floors were covered in confetti, beer bottles, and various items of clothing- Heydrich noted that it was perhaps the greatest party he had ever experienced. _I have never had so much alcohol in my life, let alone that stuff from Frankfurt. It is a wonder I have no hangover._

Near the elevator to the above-sea deck, Heydrich checked in with the Quartermaster to receive his papers and his communicator. The officer returned his belongings without incident, and wished Heydrich a prosperous leave of duty. Checking the communicator, though, dropped his mood considerably. Nearly a dozen messages from Alfred asking where he was, warning that they would leave without him, and a final message from just ten minutes before informing him that Alfred had taken Anna to the museum, and to meet him there. _Shit. I better get going then._

W+J

"I raised you better than to sleep in when you have people to meet, Heinrich. Especially if those people are your family, who you haven't seen in years, and who traveled half way across the planet to meet you," Alfred scolded over the communicator as Heinrich drove down the autobahn. "We had to start the tour without you, and you missed the personal tour from the director himself! Do you know how many strings I had to pull to get in a tour along with Obergruppenführer Eisel's wife and son? Your BOSS? You missed an opportunity to network, to make a good impression! I told you, if you try hard enough, you could run the SeebattallionKorp before you are thirty!"

"Dad, I told you when I left for my tour- I want footwork. I want to know all of the men I lead, and I prefer to have someone else come up with the big plans. I do not want to spend my entire life sitting behind a desk somewhere. We are going to defeat these terrorists eventually and what then? Who will there be to fight? When we crush them I will settle for a desk job, but until then it is the open seas for me," Heinrich shot back.

"Sigh. You are your mother's son alright. Handsome, smart, and full of potential, but no ambition! When do you think you will get here, Anna can't wait to see her brother, and she especially can't wait to go camping with a war hero" Alfred asked.

"Well, The London is anchored in Hamburg, and it is about 270 kilometers from Berlin. I have been driving for about an hour, so I should be there in a few minutes," Heinrich reported.

"Damn, just because there is no speed limit does not mean it is smart to drive as fast as you can go!"

"It's a Volkswagen Selbstfahrend Ausf. b, Dad- Kriegsmarine issue. I have nothing to do with it." This was true- as he spoke with the communicator to his ear, the car drove itself along the road no more than two feet behind the vehicle to the front of him. In fact, the car lacked any form of manual control whatsoever- the dashboard was a polished piece of oak.

"Well, if there is one thing I trust, its Aryan engineering. Any ways, do you have money for the ticket," Alfred asked.

"Heh. Funny story- you see, I have about a hundred thousand Reichmarks in salary checks and war bonds, but somebody slept in too long and didn't get a chance to withdraw anything. Can you spot me a ten?"

"Fine, I'm a little short, but we can stop by… wait a minute, something's wrong here," Alfred's tone of voice changed like day and night. Now he sounded worried. "I have to call you back later and… holy shit, shots fired! Anna, stay here," Alfred yelled.

"Dad? What's going on?" Heinrich asked.

"I'll call you back, I promise." With that, Alfred hung up his communicator.

 _Shots fired?_ He thought. _In Berlin? No way, the old man must be confused._

W+J

Any doubts Heinrich had were crushed the moment he saw the veritable division parked in from of the museum. There were a dozen vehicles, the largest of which, directly in front of the Amerika museum, made his heart sink. _That is an Überträger. Übersoldaten... this is bad news._ Heinrich parked his vehicle on the side of the road and jumped out, running towards a squad of Sturmtrupen. They called out to him.

"Halt! This is a terrorist incident, what are you doing here?" The first one asked.

"Heil Hitler!" Heinrich saluted.

"Heil!" The soldier replied.

"Untersturmführer Heinrich Heydrich, SS-SeebattallionKorp. I need to get in that building," Heinrich said with a rushed tone. "My father and sister are in there!"

The soldiers looked at each other, and then back at Heinrich. The second one spoke. "Alright, we are about to do a recon scrub. We sent in an Übersoldaten unit a few minutes ago, but this terrorist is armed and dangerous."

"Terrorist," He asked. "Just one?"

"We believe it might be Terror Billy."

That name sent a shiver down Heinrich's spine. He had received over a dozen letters informing him of his officer classmates' deaths, all of them citing his name. _I heard rumors, but I never imagined it until now. No, he can't be alive- it must be a team, it can't be him._ "What are you waiting for? Hand me a rifle, and let's show him what German pride means!"

The soldiers and Heinrich ran to the door to join up with the rest of the breaching team. The officer in command, as soon as he heard the name 'Heydrich,' gave his full support. _Dad has friends everywhere_ , he thought. The officer counted down from five, and then gave the order to enter the museum. _Here we go now. Finally, some real combat- none of that searching bushes and jungles, he is right here!_

As the soldiers walked through the main doorway into the entrance hall, they were met by several dozen terrified civilians; all huddled together and looking at the soldiers with wide eyes. The officer voiced all clear, and the paramedics came in to assess their condition. Heinrich searched the crowd for his father, but he could not see him. _He must be somewhere inside, probably chasing that terrorist bastard down himself!_

"Alright men," the officer began, "he should be right through here. Ready yourselves… and… BREACH!"

The men charged forwards into the grand hall, with Heinrich at the point, their guns leveled and searching for a target. A target that was not there- the entire grand hall was empty. If it were not for the collapsed stairwell, there would be no sign of any terrorist activity. "Ah man, it looks like he is somewhere else in the complex. Fan out, an…" Heinrich had begun to voice his command, but his eyes fell to the far end of the hall. _Two bodies… no, one body and a child, looks like a girl. I better… no…_ At that moment, Heinrich recognized the girl's dress. He saw a photograph of it, sent to him in a letter just two months before. He had said that it made Anna look like a princess, that he could not wait to see it in person.

"Oh please no. Oh GOD PLEASE NO!" Heinrich shouted as he ran towards the girl. She looked up at him as he approached, and his entire universe melted away, only to be filled with pure dread. That was his sister. And that corpse, lying in a pool of its own blood, was Alfred Heydrich. His father. He hugged his sister tight, and whispered in her ear: "don't look Anna" he said, turning her head away from her father's body. "Think happy thoughts- everything will be better soon, and I will always be here to take care of you." A tear formed in his eye. "Nobody can get away with something like this- no one. He will face justice, one way or another. I will find him, and I will kill him. I promise."


	6. Where the Fun Begins

**Where the Fun Begins**

Blaskowicz forced the latch holding the grate on the floor of the ventilation shaft, allowing the door to fall open. Peering to the room below him, he could see the floor was about thirty or forty feet below his level. Definitely too far to jump, but there was a towering stack of crates and boxes, just six feet to his left. He lowered himself through the hatch, his hands grasping the edge of the shaft, and then he swung himself and landed on one of the stacked crates, and he climbed down the wooden paneling until his boots touched the ground below.

Blaskowicz looked around him, suddenly aware of the scale of his surroundings. He stood between two vast rows of boxes, stretching nearly sixty yards in each direction with BJ in the direct center. He did not remember such a large structure being present on the ventilation map, and he couldn't tell where he was.

"Anya," he asked, his finger on his earpiece, "where am I? This wasn't on the map."

"You appear to be in the museum's logistical warehouse," Anya replied, her voice crackling from the weak connection, "the place where they store artifacts that have either recently arrived or are not yet on display. You are very close to the garage; the complex is directly connected to it at the other end from where you are now."

"Thanks," Blaskowicz thanked her.

Noting that the lighting on the left side of the warehouse was significantly darker than the right, he decided to follow the shadows and take the left side. As he walked down the row, he could hear his footsteps echoing through the complex- they sounded like thunder crashing through the country side. He began to walk more softly, but it only slightly lowered the volume of the acoustic red target painted on his back. _I better get out of here, those Nazis can hear me coming from a mile away._

"Hallo," a voice called through the echoing warehouse. "Ist jamand da?" BJ then heard footsteps, they sounded like they were coming from just around the corner, and walking in his direction.

Not wanting to reveal his presence too soon, he looked to the crates next to him for a place to hide. Finding a gap beneath one of the largest crates, he fell to his belly and activated his constrictor harness. The familiar, excruciating pain of having his entire torso squeezed to the width of his head greeted him, but he ignored it and pulled his way into the small space just as two Nazi guards rounded the corner, their guns held lazily at their sides.

"Du hast ihn verscheuch (you scared him away)," the first one spoke. "(I was afraid we would have to kill a ghost now.)"

"(I told you, I heard something over here)," the second replied. "(It was big crash, like one of the crates fell over.)"

The two soldiers were nearing Blaskowicz' hiding place. Suddenly the second one stopped just feet from him, pointing up towards the ceiling. "(Look, the ventilation hatch is open. I told you this alert was not a drill)," he exclaimed. "(What should we do, Sargent? Sargent?)" The soldier turned around, barely noticing his friend lying on the floor before his face met perfectly with the blade of a hatchet.

BJ pulled the Nazi's face off the blade of his weapon and wiped the blood off on the man's uniform. _You should have listened to your friend, I might have just snuck past you,_ he thought as he carefully lowered the body to the floor. It was carrying a sturmgewehr and had a grenade, so BJ added a new magazine to his ammo pouch and clipped the grenade to his belt. He continued on his way to the end of the crates, hoping that any more guards would assume that his footsteps were those of their fallen comrades. _I need to get out of this place before they bring in the entire Berlin garrison on my ass._

When BJ turned the corner, he could see that the warehouse extended for over thirty rows of crates, about 200 yards in length. The space between the crates and the wall, where Blaskowicz was currently standing, was being patrolled by about a dozen guards down the entire length of the walkway. He quickly moved back behind the crates, thankful that the nearest soldier was far enough away to miss him. BJ looked around the corner once more, scouting for a way to get some sort of advantage.

Looking up to the ceiling, he saw that there was a catwalk extending down the entire length of the warehouse on both sides, and crisscrossing its way across the center. The nearest ladder to the catwalk was in the row behind him, concealed in darkness- the light fixture in the area must have failed, and was yet to be replaced. Blaskowicz calmly walked to the ladder, and began to climb.

When he reached the catwalk, BJ could see all the way to the other end of the warehouse. After the rows of crates ended, there was a large area filled with trucks, forklifts, and other vehicles, all in the process of moving boxes in and out of the facility. At the very end of the massive room, a large doorway in the wall led to an even larger space beyond. _That must be the garage,_ he thought.

As Blaskowicz proceeded towards the other end of the catwalk, was pleased to see that, without the crates to reflect sound, his footsteps were barely noticeable over the sounds of pipes in the walls and vehicles moving in the distance. Preparing for his attack on the garage, he removed the Sturmgewer from his back and brought it to the ready position. Eventually, he passed over two of the soldiers- one of them an officer- and he decided to listen in on their conversation.

"(Is it true), the soldier asked, "(that terrorists attacked Oberstgruppenführer Vogel in the Amerika museum)?"

"(Don't be a fool, Fischer)," the officer warned. "(Questioning an Oberstgruppenführer's orders is punishable by death)."

"(Do you think it is even possible)," the soldier asked, "(that they could get to us here? Perhaps through the ventilation system)?"

"(There is an easy way to check that, Fischer. Just look up at the vents above your head, and see if you can spot the big bad terrorists.)"

 _Uh oh._

"Alarm! Alarm! Ein Terrorist ist…" the officer was unable to finish giving his orders, as BJ opened fire with his rifle, landing a burst in the man's face. As he fell to the ground, his soldier began to run for cover, but a bullet tore through his spine and knocked him, face first, on the corner of a crate.

Blaskowicz' efforts proved to be in vain, however, as the officer's call- as well as the sounds of gun fire- alerted the entire complex to his presence. As the alarm siren began to sound, every German he could see came to full alert, searching for the source of the gunshot. _I better hurry up then._

BJ shot every soldier in sight as he ran, his movements so well practiced that it barely took any thought. A soldier leaning on a crate took a bullet to the head, two soldiers attempting to take cover in a doorway were taken out by the same burst, and an armed museum worker firing shots at the catwalk took five bullets to the chest. No thought, no consideration, just run and shoot and run and shoot.

To his dismay, when Blaskowicz neared the half-way point to the entryway, a massive blast door fell from above, cutting the warehouse off from the garage. He had to find a way to open that door.

"Anya, there is a blast door separating me from the director. Is there a way to open it back up?"

"There should be," she responded. "There, on the Northeast side of the warehouse, to your right. There is a control room overlooking artifact transfer- it should have controls for canceling the alarm."

"Thanks," BJ said as he sprinted down the catwalk connecting both ends of the warehouse. "This should not..."

Blaskowicz was cut off by an explosion on the catwalk in front of him, collapsing the metal and turning the level walkway into a ramp, tripping BJ and sending him sliding to the floor below. He could immediately tell the cause of the explosion, as an Übersoldaten stood at the end of the row, his twin dieselgewehren leveled at Blaskowicz' head.

BJ jumped to his feet and ran towards the Übersoldaten, firing the last ten bullets in the magazine at the Nazi's faceplate, dodging diesel shots by strafing left and right. As he had intended, this behavior coaxed the Übersoldaten into firing his rockets- shooting straight at BJ at immense speeds.

Blaskowicz waited until the Nazi was within 20 feet, and then he jumped to his right, dodging it by the hair of his head. As the Übersoldaten flew past him, he pulled the grenade from his belt and threw it onto the soldier's armor, sticking it in a crack between his helmet and his energy generator. When the Übersoldaten turned to face BJ once more, an explosion tore its head from its shoulders and dropped its massive, lifeless corpse to the floor. _The Nazis always send these things in groups,_ he thought, picking up one of the dieselgewehren. _This will make it easier._

W+J

Sure enough, Blaskowicz found the second Übersoldaten, as well as six soldiers and an officer, in the area with the vehicles. He fired the entire fuel tank in his dieselgewehren at the Übersoldaten, landing three shots in the chest and one on his head. As the towering soldier shuddered from the blast, turning to one side, BJ fired the last shot at his back-mounted fuel tank, detonating the pack and killing the Übersoldaten. The hot metal shrapnel, now flying in every direction, impaled itself in five of the soldiers. The remaining soldier attempted to run, but BJ pulled out his new pistol and shot the man in the back of his head. "Where do they find these guys, the daycare?" He wondered.

Near his position an SS mechanized halftrack was parked, its former occupants currently spread around the warehouse in multiple bloody pieces. BJ walked to the side of the vehicle and examined the spare equipment, as his ammunition stores were running low. He collected seven magazines for his sturmgewehr, three for his pistol, and charged his laser cutter on the halftrack's industrial outlet. As he hooked the cutter around his belt, he spotted a curious box on the left side of the storage space. Opening it, he found four six-inch long, inch wide uneven cylinders with rounded tips and flat bottoms. Turing one of the objects, he could see that the flat bottoms were actually concave, with a hole at the center of the dip. _Rockets,_ he thought. _But where is the launcher?_

Blaskowicz turned the rocket in his hand and looked to the Nazi corpses below him. There, in the severed hand of the officer that was standing closest to the Übersoldaten, laid the device BJ was looking for. At first glance it appeared to be some sort of shogun, but when he picked it up he could tell that the action was not designed for shotgun shells. It was, basically, a two-foot tube with a pistol grip and a handle near the end of the barrel, and with skeletal stock folded over the top of the barrel. Between the twin prongs of the stock, at the rear end of the barrel, there was a small lever. Clicking it, the rear section of the barrel split in half and opened upwards, revealing it to be a breech. Inside, snuggling a cone at the back of the barrel was another of the rockets from the pouch. BJ closed the breech, and placed three of the rockets in a few loops on the side of his ammunition pouch. "You're probably not the best gun out there" he said aloud, looking to the officer's corpse, "but I plan on having some fun with you."

He slung the launcher over his shoulder, and turned to face the northern wall. Up at the top of the wall, about twenty feet in from the bulkhead separating the warehouse from the main garaged, a large bay window stared down over Blaskowicz. The glass was too reflective for him to make out any details inside, but he could tell the lights on the control room ceiling were on. _They can see me coming,_ he thought as he approached the ladder to the catwalk. _Good._

As he pulled himself to the top of the catwalk, BJ spotted the door to his right, a small branch in the walkway breaking the railing about twenty feet from the bay window itself. Blaskowicz checked the knob and, after the handle refused to budge, he brought his hatchet out of its sheath and looked to the coded on the wall next to the door. He jammed the blade under the back of it, pulled the faceplate off, and grabbed two of the wired. BJ then shoved them together, generating a charge and opening the lock for him to easily push his way through to the control center.

Blaskowicz was surprised to find the center completely abandoned. The doorway led to a short hallway, opening to a medium-sized room with the left and far walls lined with various computers, desks, and chairs. Rounding the corner, he saw that the other two walls were lined with cabinets. BJ moved towards the front of the control room, spotting a lever positioned on one of the desks in the middle of the bay window, turned to the "Ein" position. He wrapped his hand around the lever and pulled it to the "Aus" position.

Through the speaker system, a loud female's voice boomed through the warehouse and the control room, in German: "(warning, class 7 intrusion protocol activated. Disabling blast doors in a class 7 event is punishable by public execution. Blast doors opening in 10 seconds)."

The rectangular forty-foot metal plate impeding Blaskowicz' progress began to slowly rise, revealing that the garage behind was clouded in darkness. When the door reached the half-way point, it became clear that every light in the garage was turned down, and the lights within the warehouse failed to reach more than thirty feet within the vast chasm beyond. BJ exited the control room as the door rose, finding himself at the catwalk ladder by the time the passage was finally clear. With the underground parking garage clouded in darkness, his vision of the garage was little more than a solid black block. "Like a monster's mouth. Ready for me to walk right into its gaping maw, to feed on my body and my soul."

Blaskowicz reasoned that the lights must have been turned down as some sort of security procedure, but he decided to move with caution. Lowering himself down the ladder, he never broke his line of sight with the entryway. _I might not be able to see any of them, but they are there, somewhere. I can't see them, but they can't see me- let's keep it that way_. BJ walked to the edge of the garage, and then through it. With his rifle at his shoulder, he stepped to the edge of the light beam, his eyes scanning the darkness.

"Did you really think," a voice called from the abyss, its English barely distorted by a light German accent; "it would be that easy, Captain?"

Instantly, BJ's eyes were flashed as all of the garage's lighting systems turned on at once. Blaskowicz was immediately aware of just how large the garage was, dwarfing the warehouse in comparison. The ceiling stood sixty feet overhead, and extended for almost two football fields in length to the other side, where another door to a second warehouse stood tall. The wall opposite of him had six such doors, one to his left and four to the right, reaching a combined length of over 600 yards- a warehouse for every major building in the museum. At both ends of the garage, massive 4-door constructs, perhaps leading to the exits of the facility, laid flush to the cavern's walls. The garage itself had many thick pillars supporting the weight of the ceiling and the earth above. On the southeast end of the garage, in the corner directly across from BJ himself, a wheeled, train-like vehicle seemed to be in the process of preparing for a long journey. Between the train and the warehouse, amongst dozens of trucks, half-tracks and other military vehicles, an army stood blocking his way.

From his vantage point on the ground, Blaskowicz could not see how many hundreds of Nazi soldiers stood before him, their weapons at their shoulders as if in parade formation. Their black uniforms melded together, greeting a solid sheet of blackness flowing in a u-shaped wall fifty feet from his position. Amongst the normal soldiers, who kept a distance around them, a dozen Übersoldaten glared his way, their arms carrying every heavy gun imaginable- but, despite the overwhelming sea of soldiers standing before him, BJ's attention was fixated a single officer, the origin of the voice. It was the man he had seen earlier, the one with the force field that prevented Blaskowicz from returning to Anya almost an hour ago. _I hope you aren't too attached to that fancy belt buckle of yours. Can't wait to take those shields for a spin._

"I hope you don't mind," the officer jeered, a smile on his face, "but Dr. Jones is coming with me. Don't worry, I promise to treat him like the filth he is!" The officer, still smiling, pointed at Blaskowicz. "You, on the other hand… I have more civilized plans for you."

BJ, not one to listen to monologues, decided to interrupt the Nazi before he could keep them there all day. "Plans? What do you want, you prick, do you expect me to surrender?"

"No, Captain Blaskowicz," the officer spoke, his smile and gleeful tone never leaving him. "I expect you to die."


	7. Die

Author's note: There is nothing I hate more than an abandoned story, or project, or piece of artwork where the creator abandons it and it sits on a cliffhanger for years on end. I am truly sorry, although I do have a good explanation: action scenes are hard as hell to write. Try it yourself, it is one thing to imagine something and quite anither to describe it. I had to take an actual class, but I think I figured it out

I promise this will never happen again.

Enjoy!

 **Die**

"I told my family I would be able to spend some time with them on the Rhine, just the four of us and the best fishing in Europe," Rottenfüher Philip Stickler said to the other four members of his Seelandkorp platoon as they sat in the back of a half-track, "so what exactly am I doing suiting up on a minute's notice and riding into battle in the middle of Berlin?

"You'll have to ask Heydrich when we reach to museum, Phil, I know just as much as you do," Rottenfüher Henkel replied, nudging Sturmmann Theil in the seat next to him. "Hey Rookie, what do you think? I got five Reichmarks that say he wants us for his sister's birthday party.

"Shut your mouth Henkel," Unterscharführer Adolph Jans shot at him. "If your Untersturmfüher wants us to perform for a birthday party, you will perform for that party like a fucking clown! I expect those balloon animals to be perfect, or I will have your head!"

Most of the platoon members let out a good chuckle aside from Theil, who was slightly frustrated. "You guys said you would stop calling me Rookie when our tour ended, guys." Thiel, the lowest ranking member of the group, had been a replacement for a soldier who had died a year into the expedition.

Rottenfüher Kunst reached across the vehicle from his seat and playfully slapped his cheek, "you're the youngest guy here, like a child. You will always be out little brother, Rookie."

Theil smiled, and pulled his wallet from one of his uniform's pockets, and reached inside it, rummaging for something. "I have been meaning to tell you guys this, but I decided to save it for when we were back home, just to shove it in your face a little." From the wallet he pulled a photograph, depicting a young woman and the Sturmman hugging each other, the woman visibly pregnant. "I am married, and I have a little boy waiting for me at home. His name is Otto, and I was going to meet him for the first time today."

Theil waved the photograph around, making sure that each of his fellow soldiers saw his wife, relishing in the surprised looks on their faces.

"Good god man, you're _married_?!"

"You are a _father_?"

"Is that why you wouldn't bang that prostitute in Fiji?"

As the questions came, Theil kept a smile on his face, and placed the photograph back in his wallet. "The looks on your faces… this was well worth the wait."

"Congratulations" Jans said, reaching his hand out, "you really got us good, you have my eternal respect."

Theil shook his Unterscharführer's hand. "I guess you can't call me 'Rookie' anymore."

"Like hell we can't," Henkel said, "if anything, we're going to do it more. You deserve it for making us liars for three years. Rookie."

The soldiers continued to talk amongst each other for several minutes, but they cease their conversation when they felt the halftrack turn off the main road and into the Berlin Kolony Museum complex. They had arrived and, just seconds after the vehicle stopped, the doors opened.

The soldiers looked to Untersturmfüher Heydrich, as he stood holding the doors to the vehicle open. As with every member of the SS-Seelandkorp, he carried his combat uniform with him at all times, ready to be donned at a moment's notice to fight enemies of the Reich wherever the soldier may find himself. Heydrich's officer's uniform was black, with a long flowing cape. His cap was decorated with a skull, and his ears covered with combat headset, a mic stretched from the ear to his mouth. The entire uniform was laced with combat weave fibers and metal plating, providing even more protection than standard combat armor, despite maintaining its sharp design and fabric surface. It was the uniform of a handsome, deadly man, and Heydrich wore it as if it were his natural skin.

"Heil Hitler!" The soldiers saluted their leader in unison.

"Heil," Heydrich saluted back, his refrain more purposeful and assertive than usual.

"Heinrich," Jans said to him, "Theil over here is a father, could you guess it?"

"Of course I know that, I have had to censor enough of his filthy loved letters to know what position he was conceived in," Heydrich angrily shot back, "and that is Untersturmfüher, Unterscharführer. You are a soldier, not a child, and I expect you to act like it." Heydrich looked around the halftrack at his men, counting them, and scowled at what he saw. _Five men?_ He thought. _Our platoon has twenty-two, where are the rest?_ "Jans, where are the rest of my men?"

"Half of the men in each squad don't live anywhere near Berlin, sir," He replied, "and half of the rest are on the other side of town, well outside of the window you gave us. We have three men from Bravo squad and two from Alpha."

Heydrich let out a short sigh as he reached is seat. _It will have to do,_ he thought as the half-track began to move once more. "Okay men," he began, "here is the situation. The museum is under attack by a terrorist. There have been casualties, both military and," He stopped for a brief pause, tripping on the thought of Alfred, "civilian."

Heydrich could see his squad getting uneasy, but he continued. "Unlucky for them, they decided to attack the heart of Berlin when Oberstgruppenführer Vogel was visiting the museum's director. We are to meet up with of Vogel's men and the Berlin garrison in the distribution garage, where we will intercept the terrorist and bring him to his knees!"

Most of the squad smiled, satisfied by this answer, but Stickler was not completely convinced. "The Berlin garrison has thousands of men, sir. Why bring us out of leave to catch just one terrorist?"

"For one, Rottenfüher," Heydrich scolded, "you should never question your superior's orders!" Heydrich slapped him, and continued his explanation. "And for another, I just had to pull my little sister from our father's corpse!"

The squad looked at Heydrich with stunned silence; this explained Heydrich's unusual behavior to them. They had no idea the situation was so serious.

"Untersturmfüher, I am so sorry…" Stickler attempted to apologize, but Heydrich was not done yet.

"Apologies do not fix mistakes, Stickler. One more hint insubordination out of you and I will shoot you on the spot." Heydrich, now finished, took a second to calm down. _What else… ah, yes, the plan._ "We are on our way to the underground complex right now; we should be descending the tunnel as we speak. Once we meet up with the rest of the Berlin garrison, get into position. The lights will be off, so it will be dark- the General wants to gain the element of surprise- so turn your night vision lenses on, and stay quiet. Do not shoot until Vogel gives the order, understood?"

"Sir, yes sir!" the squad refrained, all doubts struck from their minds. They sat straight in their seats at attention, stealing themselves for what was to come.

W+J

 _It is really him,_ Heydrich thought as he stared at the figure standing before the wall of Nazi soldiers. Despite the significant distance from the figure to his squad's position on the southern flank of the formation, as well as the light spilling forth from the warehouse that blinded his eyes from resolving fine details, he could still make out the ape-like build of the man. _Terror Billy is alive. He is here in Berlin…_ Heydrich connected the points together, and like a bolt of lightning shooting down his spine he was instantly consumed with an almost uncontrollable rage. _You killed my father._

The officer tightened his grip on the Panzerfaust X in his hands; the folding stock snuggled tightly into his shoulder. It was a new weapon intended to serve as the standard carry of Officers of the SS, and although Heydrich had studied the manual extensively he was yet to test fire the gun, even at a target range. Nevertheless, he was confident in German engineering, and he knew that his opportunity to test the launcher on live targets would come very soon. The sights of his gun met his eye, and he leveled it at the terrorist's chest, ready to burst his chest like a watermelon the second the General gave the order to fire.

"(Did you really think it would be that easy, Captain?)"

 _What the hell? English?_

Heydrich turned into the darkness to his left, unable to locate the voice that was currently giving away their position. He reached to reengage his night-vision eyepiece, but he stopped his hand as his eyes were blinded by every light in the entire garage complex igniting at once, instantly lifting the darkness that had moments ago concealed over three hundred Nazi soldiers from the gaze of their target. The element of surprise had been lost.

Heydrich quickly snapped his attention back to Terror Billy, his trigger finger a hair's width from firing the first shot against the monster standing before them. _Our cover is blown. Why hasn't the General given the order to fire, he should be dead by now!_ With the light to view the man in full detail, Terror Billy was even more, well, terrifying, than Heydrich could have ever imagined. He was dressed in civilian clothing that would not be considered out of place in any of the Reich's public buildings or national parks, but the stylish leather and cloth was soaked crimson, blood caking his chest and strewn across his face. Billy stood tall and broad, his frame making his stolen rifle appear small in his arms.

General Vogel spoke in that vile language once more, his voice sounding through the officer's radio headset. Despite the General's clear voice, Heydrich was unable to decipher what was being said- his mind was racing, panic ebbing in to replace the fiery hatred that had consumed him only moments before. _Talk? Vogel is fucking monolouging to a terrorist?! Does he think this is a movie of some kind? He knows who this man is, right?_

Heydrich was disgusted to hear the untermench speak back to Vogel, a subhuman Jew and a terrorist conversing with an Oberstgruppenführer of the SS, as if they were in any way comparable or equal. Heydrich smiled. _What am I thinking? This is not a man, this is an animal. He will soon pay for his insolence._

"Fire! Kill the terrorist!"

The command Heydrich had been anticipating had finally come, and he squeezed the trigger on his panzerfaust, sending the rocket on a trajectory towards Terror Billy. All around him the garage bursted with a noise that could only be matched by a Venus rocket at takeoff; hundreds of rifles, submachineguns, pistols, rockets, diesel guns, lasers, and every weapon known to the Reich discharged their rounds at the same instant, all focused on the same target. The jet stream of the explosive charge blinded Heydrich to the fate of the terrorist before him, but he knew that nobody, not even _him_ , could withstand the might of the Waffen-SS.

The rocket moved further, and further from him, eventually striking a hard surface and detonated its core, tearing a hole in the floor of the warehouse thirty meters behind Terror Billy. Heydrich stared in awe at the man, who was now standing atop tall stilts and returning fire with his sturmgewehr. In a panic, the officer clutched a second rocket from his ammunition belt and released the breech of the launcher, ready to reload and fire once more. _What have we done?_

Heydrich jammed the rocket into the breech, and momentarily returned his attention to Terror Billy, who was not running along the wall to the officer's right, in the direction of a dozen parked half-tracks. Heydrich's eyes met with those of the terrorist, able to make out the focus of those blue spheres even from such a distance, and at that moment he could see his fate. He instinctively threw his left arm up to block his face in an act of futility, as if he were a goalie trying to stop a football from breaking his nose.

In a period of time too short for Heydrich to fully comprehend, he was struck by a burst of four rifle bullets, all of them flying at sonic velocity.

The first landed just below his belly button, pressing unnaturally far into his guts and crushing muscle, fatty tissue, and intestines before being caught by the ballistic fiber weave of his uniform.

The second hit his metal chest plate an inch offset of his heart, ricocheting harmlessly off the well-designed angles and curves, but bruising three of his ribs from the force of the blow.

The third round, on a trajectory that would have punctured his eye and eviscerated his entire skull, instead hit the underside of his raised arm, shattering the delicate bones of the wrist and lodging itself between the radius and ulna.

The fourth round passed above Heydrich's arm, and all his thoughts stopped, pain and confusion filling his mind until it drowned out all thought, and his ears were overwhelmed by deep and unignorably ringing, as if he were standing next to a church bell. His entire perception of reality was replaced with mindless torment, agony, and emptiness.

W+J

Eventually, Heydrich broke through the pain, and he began to get a view of where he was and what was happening. He found himself on his knees, his hands clenched to the sides of his head, and his first thought was that he had been shot in the head, that there was a piece of metal in his brain at that moment.

He brushed the face of his cap with his right hand, feeling for an entry wound. His fingers touched upon the Totenkopf, and he felt the back end of the pullet protruding from the metal where the bones crossed- the metal insignia, as well as the solid steel helmet beneath, had saved his life. _I'm not dead_ Heydrich thought, brushing the wound and attempting to ignore the bell tolling in his ear, _but I definitely have a concussion._

Heydrich lowered his hand from his temple, and he franticly brushed the ground where he believed he had dropped his rocket launcher. As he did so, he looked up at the chaos that laid before him, and he almost wished that the bullet had done its proper job.

The orderly German formation was in complete disarray, and almost unrecognizable from what it had previously been before. Dozens of soldiers of the Berlin Garrison were swarming around the spaces between the vehicles, shouting orders and commands and requests and curses, firing their weapons in every which direction. Heydrich's gut clenched with disgust as he watched one rifleman empty the magazine of his SMG into the gut of another soldier who had simply walked next to him. His eyes quickly drew to a flash of light to his left, where an Übersoldaten's diesel tank suddenly detonated. Heydrich watched as the fireball burned four nearby soldiers to their bones, the shrapnel flying further and impaling the bodies of other unfortunate servicemen within ten meters.

 _The bodies._

Heydrich was not new to combat; he was far from a greenhorn. He had seen and made dozens of corpses in his lifetime- but nothing like this. All around him, in every direction he could see, the Berlin Garrison was strewn in pieces on the ground. Heydrich did not even attempt to count them, as their forms melded together to create a massive carpet of death and injury. What was not covered in corpses was soaked in blood. It is a sight that is not meant to be viewed by any just mortal soul, and should be reserved only for the wicked and the subhuman when they pass into the depths of hell itself. _God have mercy on us all._

As Heydrich pulled himself to his feet, his launcher nowhere to be found, he cradled his injured hand close to his chest and pulled out his pistol, his eyes searching the battlefield for the demon that had slaughtered his men. Heydrich surveyed the panicking soldiers for signs of an officer, and he was displeased to note that the majority of the telltale Wehrmacht officer's uniforms were on the many corpses littering the ground.

The sound of gunshots on the other side of a line of halftracks alerted the officer to the return of his hearing, and with it he was blasted with the sounds of the disorganized commanders over the radio system in his earpiece.

"Where is he?"

"I've been hit!"

"Fight back you cowards!"

Several voices were calling out all at once, and Heydrich could not make heads or tails of it. It appeared that Blaskowicz had successfully turned the greatest fighting force in the history of mankind into nothing more than a disjointed mob.

 _Jans?_

Thirty meters in front of him, huddled behind a pile of metal from a destroyed vehicle, he spotted three men; one of them, hugging the left end of the makeshift cover, was an officer- Heydrich could not tell his rank from such a distance, but his cap and uniform were easy to make out. The other two were wearing the signature blue battle-armor of the SS-SeelandKorp, and one of them- the man in the center of the group- had a very familiar red star on the side of his helmet. Sargent Jans was arguing loudly with the officer, although Heydrich could not tell what they were arguing about.

Heydrich sprinted over his fallen comrades, struggling to avoid slipping in the mess. _That officer better be ordering Jans to commit treason, or I'll shoot his subordinate ass._

Without warning, the officer grabbed Jans by his shoulders and pulled the marine to his feet, pointing with his left hand at something on the other side of scrap pile while grappling Jans' armor straps with his right. Heydrich was within ten meters of the group, so he called out to them; "What is the meaning of this?"

The other officer turned his head and began to speak, but a loud 'ping' sounded as a bullet penetrated the back of the man's helmet, causing his face to explode outwards and showering Heydrich with a red mess of muscle and blood. The decapitated corpse collapsed to the ground, and Heydrich threw himself behind the spot where the man had been cowering only moments before.

Heydrich swore, "Fucking hell!"

"I am sorry Untersturmfüher," Jans began, now crouching alongside him. "I was trying to tell him…"

"Tell him what, unterscharführer?" Heydrich snapped, his eyes passing between the officer's corpse, Jans, and the other SS-SeelandKorp soldier crouched on the far end of the cover.

"I was trying to explain to him that the terrorist keeps going after officers. I wanted him to relay that over the coms," Jan said, as Heydrich looked over his soldier at the man behind him, recognizing Rottenfüher Henkel from the scratches on his mask, "but he would not listen to me."

Heydrich nodded softly, and keyed the intercom on his ear with his unwounded hand. "Alert, the terrorist is targeting officers. Keep your head down and try to organize the units short on command."

"No! Don't you dare do that you cowards!" Heydrich flinched as Vogel's voice boomed through the earpiece, his volume elevated above the standard setting. "Get out and shoot the bastard, or I will have your head!"

 _What kind of idiot would do that? What kind of system puts an incompetent fool such as that into a position to command an entire military branch?_ Heydrich shook his head, clearing the thought from his mind. _What the hell am I thinking? He was hand-picked by the Füher himself- who am I to question his choice!_

"Heinrich," Jans said, grabbing his shoulder as he looked over the cover. "Check this out!"

Heinrich followed his gaze over the crumpled metal heap, and he was shocked by the sight before him. There was a large clearing between the parked cars, about the size of a soccer field, and directly in the center of the area stood the General himself, carrying a large weapon Heinrich did not recognize, firing bolts of lightning into the darkness between a fuel truck and a tank on the far side of the clearing.

Standing with Vogel were the surviving garrison Übersoldaten, six of them, surrounding him in a circle and firing their weapons in the same direction as the General. At a glance, Heydrich saw the corpses of at least a dozen soldiers lining the ground in the clearing, as well as scrap metal from at least two of the towering super-soldiers.

Suddenly, without warning, a rocket fired from beneath a few dozen meters from where the defenders were focusing their fire. The rocket struck one of the Übersoldaten near Vogel, impacting on its pack and detonating its diesel tank. Heydrich felt the power of the explosion from his position in cover, and he watched as the other Übersoldaten shuddered from the shockwave and the debris pelting their armor. Vogel, however, did not even flinch, as his body was encircled by a glowing amber sphere that caused the debris to deflect harmlessly to his sides. _What the hell?_

Blaskowicz rolled out from his unnaturally small hiding spot and jumped to his feet as he fired another rocket at Vogel. As it traveled through the air the German soldiers returned fire, but the terrorist leaped forward and into the air with his battle walker, causing the shots to pass under his legs, missing him completely.

Heydrich drew his pistol and fired at Terror Billy, as did many other solders overlooking the field, but to no avail- you cannot kill what you cannot hit. When Heydrich shot at him in the air, he flew forward. When he tried to guess the trajectory, he fell to the ground and rolled. When Heydrich had a clear shot at his head for just a split second, the maniac rammed his shoulder in to an Übersoldaten at full speed, causing the half-ton killing machine to stumble back. The terrorist then strafed to the side while firing two sturmgewehr at once, tearing through the fuel pack and destroying yet another Übersoldaten.

Heydrich watched as Blaskowicz ran to the cover of the vehicles under the cover of the fireball, Vogel and his soldiers temporarily stunned. Before any of them could retaliate, an electrical explosive shock appeared directly in front of Vogel's feet, thrown by the terrorist in the chaos. The explosion knocked the soldiers and the General into the air, causing Vogel to fire a lightning pulse at random.

His eyes attracted to the brilliant radiance of the beam, Heydrich followed it to a group of a dozen soldiers grouped together about twenty meters from his hiding place. He watched as the pulse struck one man in the chest, and tangential electrical beams radiated to all of the other soldiers around him. The unfortunate target burst into flames on the spot, his body rapidly roasting as if he were a pig on a spigot. The solders around him fell as well, although their injuries seemed at first glance to be far less severe.

One of the soldiers stuck out from the rest in Heydrich's eyes, as his blue uniform marked him as one of his own Seelandkorp platoonmates. On the man's shoulder, even from this distance, the golden bar of a Sturmmann stood in contrast with the blood-stained blue fabric.

 _Theil._

Heydrich's worry for his friend grew beyond compare when he realized that Theil, knocked out in a sitting positon, was propped against a fuel truck- and the flaming corpse next to him was lying in a puddle of spilled diesel from a fallen Übersoldaten.

Heydrich did not think about what happened next. In the heat of battle, when your men's lives are on the line, there is no time for thought- only action. He pulled himself over the metal cover with both hands, ignoring the pain from his shattered wrist, and ran towards his fallen comrade.

As he ran, the fire spread from the corpse across the fuel.

 _Theil._

Heydrich was half way to his friend, and the fire reached the truck.

 _I'm not going to make it._

Heydrich did not stop running as the fire jumped up the tire and next to the tank.

 _No._

Heydrich was only twelve meters from the truck when the fire ignited the fuel inside, detonating with the force of three tons of TNT. The fireball engulfed the battlefield, scorching soldiers even at a distance. Theil was shredded to pieces by the steel tank, and what was left was burned to a crisp in an instant. Heydrich, caught on the edge of the fireball, was thrown to the ground and scarred by the intense heat.

His skin was scalded as if his face were forced onto a grill, and his uniform melted in places onto his legs and his guts. With the fireball came shrapnel, tearing through his skin as if it were butter and impaling Heydrich in more places than he could count.

Lying on the ground, his broken arm jammed beneath a large chunk of metal, Heydrich tried to open his eyes- but a knife-sized chunk of steel was protruding through his left eye socket. With his remaining good eye, the edges of his vision fading to black, he lazily peered down at the pain near his waste. He saw a long and wide hunk of metal protruding from his guts, his blood gushing from multiple arteries and boiling on the hot metal. With his mind quickly fading, he vaguely realized that he could not feel his legs, or anything under the metal for that matter.

 _So this is what it feels like to di_ e, he though, closing his eye and gritting his teeth. _I am sorry I failed you, father. I will see you and mom in Valhalla._

In his last sensation before passing out from blood loss, Heydrich felt the weight relieved from his arm and hands passing beneath his armpits, pulling him away from the wreckage and the inferno as if an angel were guiding him to the afterlife. _Heh, here I come,_ he mused, as Unterscharführer Jans dragged him to the safety of cover.


	8. The Robot

**The Robot**

Blaskowicz grunted as he pulled his hatchet from the skull of a Nazi soldier, before compressing his torso with his constrictor harness and diving under a nearby car. For the last half hour he had been tearing his way through an entire battalion of the Berlin Garrison, and he had lost count of how many Nazis he had shot, exploded, decapitated, beaten, shoved, burned, emolliated, and choked.

Crawling out from the other side of the car, he quickly slit the throat of a wounded soldier huddled next to one of the tires, reveling in the fear in the man's eyes as blood gushed from his neck and his leg. _If it were not for that idiot general, I would be dead right now._

From the best of BJ's understanding, "dead" would be understating the situation. He had been unable to see anything in the parking complex when the ambush had started, and yet thousands of rifles were trained on him for several seconds. Even when the lights were first turned on, his eyes were blinded by the flash- plenty of time for his body to be filled with lead and burned to the bone by diesel.

Yet, despite the overwhelming advantage, the Nazi General had taunted him with a monologue that belonged in a comic book. He had sacrificed the element of surprise in favor of looking good, and thus he had lost every chance of taking Blaskowicz down. _Whoever gave him that rank, it wasn't for his exceptional tactical skills._

BJ turned in the direction of the General, who was running away from the battlefield in the direction of the train on the other side of the complex. Blaskowicz had tried everything he could think of to knock down the force field that protected the Nazi from harm, but none of the weapons he could salvage from the garrison could put a dent in it. He guessed that the Tesla cannon wielded by the General himself might be able to down the shield, and so he had focused most of his efforts on finding a way to knock it from his hands with explosive force.

BJ sprinted after the General, weaving through vehicles and storage crates strewn about the massive underground space. Vogel was almost as fast as Blaskowicz, and had a significant lead on him, but he was forced to go around many of the obstacles in his path. As BJ reached a truck that Vogel had rounded just a few seconds earlier, he activated his stilts and jumped over it, taking the opportunity to fire a rocket at his query. The rocket destroyed the ground next to the general, but he merely stumbled from the concussive force as his shields deflected most of the heat and shrapnel.

The General reached the end of the vehicles, and exited to a clear area that extended for 50 meters towards the massive train on the side of the garage. As Blaskowicz rounded the same corner, he was finally able to get a good view of the train. It was made up of about a dozen large cars stretching into the distance, each of them about twenty feet tall, fifteen feet wide, and nearly sixty feet long. The engine car at the front of the vehicle was the same size, except it was also rounded and aerodynamic, obviously built for very high speeds.

The characteristic that caught BJ's attention, however, were the massive wheels that lined the undersides of each car. He realized that this "train" was not built to drive on rails exclusively, but it could also drive over land like an ultra-long semi-truck. Blaskowicz' inner child was curious to know if they sold such behemoths as train sets in hobby stores, but he pushed the thought from his mind as the Nazi leaped into an open doorway in the second train car, and turned to face the American with a smile on his face.

"I admire your tenacity, Captain Blaskowicz…" he said, as the second train car started to move, with a huge mechanical door opening on the side facing BJ. "And I must admit you have a lot of skill…" the General continued, as a massive robot pulled itself from the train car and began to climb to its feet between BJ and the train. "But your _luck_ leaves something to be desired!" General Vogel finished with a smile as he closed the door on the train car, leaving Blaskowicz to deal with the robot towering over his head.

The robot appeared to be quite standard from BJ's experience, standing around forty feet tall and appearing to squat with its wide frame. It raised its arms, covered in all sorts of weapons from lasers to missiles, all of them leveled at Blaskowicz' position. _I can take it,_ BJ thought, his mind more focused on the train than the hulking weapon before him. _But I better make this fast._

BJ leaped to his left as the robot unleashed a barrage of missiles at him, feeling the heat from their jets as they flew past him and detonated uselessly on the side of a rather unfortunate forklift, tearing it to pieces. Remembering the typical pattern, he took cover behind the corner of a shipping container and readied his sturmgewehr. He brought it to his shoulder, and then quickly turned the corner and leveled it at the robot's left arm. As he predicted, the protective cover over the laser was open, and a bright light indicated the location of a charging laser. BJ shot a burst towards the light, breaking the lens and causing the built-up energy to discharge within the mechanism.

As the robot's arm disintegrated into a useless hunk of red-hot metal scrap, Blaskowicz returned around the shipping container and ran past it towards a second container. He rounded the second container and turned towards the robot which, as expected, was turned away from his current position in an attempt to get to the place where he had previously been. BJ pulled the pin from a Tesla grenade, and threw it at the exposed rocket launcher on the robot's back.

Electrical arcs crossed the robot's torso as the grenade detonated inside one of the launcher tubes, causing the behemoth to shudder before one of the missiles detonated, blowing a large piece of steel toward BJ, who dodged behind the cover of the second storage container. His heart sank as he realized that the Nazi landtrain's engine roared to life, filling the cavernous complex with the grinding of steel gears and the squeal of steam filling copper pies. _God damn it, just die already!_

Blaskowicz activated his stilts and effortlessly clambered on top of the storage container, sprinting across it towards the damaged robot. With smoke and sparks pouring from its back and its arm, it turned its head at BJ and opened a visor on its face, revealing another laser and firing a beam at the incoming American.

The laser beam singed BJ's right shoulder with a near miss, and he leaped onto the robot's face and smashed the laser lens with the butt of his rifle. He turned the barrel back around, and emptied the rest of the magazine into the robot's already mutilated head. The robot collapsed beneath him, and Blaskowicz leaped off of the wreck and rolled as he hit the ground, running to escape the destruction as the robot self-destructed in an explosive ball of fire and scrap metal.

Blaskowicz' victory was short-lived, however, as the landtrain's wheels screeched into action and pulled the hulking vehicle into motion. It accelerated as fast as any car BJ had seen, and the cars passed him by as he sprinted towards it in an attempt to latch on before it could leave him behind. He reached the landtrain as the tenth car passed, but he did not attempt to board it, as it was moving so fast that to do so would cause him to splat against the railing like a bug on a windshield.

The landtrain's engine exited the cavern through one of the ramps at the far end of the garage, and the caboose followed it just a few seconds later. Blaskowicz opened the door of a nearby military car, and as he sat in the seat and reached for the key he tapped his earpiece. "Hey Fergus, I need some assistance over here."

"Like hell you do," the Scotsman shouted back over the radio system. "What the hell is that bloody train tearing out of an underground tunnel for? Please tell me you have the fucking director!"

Blaskowicz floored the gas pedal of the car and tore down the tunnel as he responded to his friend. "No Fergus, I did not get the director, some Nazi General got to him first. My best guess is he is on that train, and I need you to get me on it."

"Okay, just get out in the open and I will pick you up with the helicopter. I can get you on that train while it is in the city, but with the speed and all of the AA fire I won't be able to get you back; you will have to get out of there on your own."

Blaskowicz' car jumped onto its rear axle slightly as he exited the tunnel into the sunshine of the Museum's parking lot, the light fazing him slightly as he gazed at the military vehicles, ambulances, and news vans in front of the Amerika museum, attracted to the mess he had made earlier. "When has this ever been easy?" he asked his friend, as he watched the helicopter land within three open parking spaces, attracting the attention of the Nazi crowd. Blaskowicz parked the car next to the helicopter, jumped out of the door, and clambered into the deck as Fergus expertly lifted off again.

The Nazi soldiers fired potshots at the helicopter as it lifted into the air and flew in pursuit of the landtrain, which BJ could see turning onto the highway system nearly a mile away from him. Blaskowicz climbed into a seat, and reached beneath it. Sure enough, his laser was still in its storage casing, and pulled it out and felt the grip in his hands. _Next time Grace tells me to leave you behind; I'm telling her where to stick it._


	9. The General

**The General**

Much to Dr. Jones' dismay, he woke up.

He knew very well what the Nazis do to resistance members when they are found, especially traitors to the Schutzstaffel, and he had hoped that the force striking the back of his head back in the museum had been a bullet.

On three separate occasions during his stationing at Castle Wolfenstein he had to assist General Vogel in the "interrogation" of prisoners, and those men were complete strangers to him- the thought of what that sadistic monster would do to a man he thought was his _friend_ filled him with dread.

Dr. Jones opened his eyes and, for a brief and terrifying moment, he thought that Vogel had chemically blinded him. He quickly realized that he merely had a bag placed over his head, which did little to ease his mind. He felt a cloth band across his tongue; his mouth was gagged as well. _That's a little overkill, isn't it?_ He thought.

A significant, throbbing pain came to his attention, and Dr. Jones realized that he was hanging spread-eagle from his wrists, and something had been drilled through the flesh and into his bones. He flailed his feet uselessly in the air beneath him, attempting to find something to stand on and alieve the stress on his shoulders. His mind quickly flooded back to the last interrogation he had assisted Vogel with, and he could picture the thick electrical cords anchored to his arms by surgically-drilled electrodes embedded in the bone marrow of his radii and ulnas. _I hope he is in a mood to talk._

He heard the loud _bang_ of a door opening behind him, and suddenly a hand pulled the bag off his head from behind. His eyes adjusted to the blinding light, and he could see the room in front of him. He was only hanging with his feet a few inches above the floor, directly above a sinister drainage pipe lined with suspicious red stains. In front of him was a table covered in various pieces of medical equipment, including a knife-carrier roll belt with different scalpel sizes and a box filled with hammers, pliers, hacksaws, and a very large, sharp-looking spoon. It was a sadist's dream, the toybox of a torturer- and Dr. Jones was his newest plaything.

"Why did you do that, Doctor?" General Vogel muttered as he rounded the American, stepping slowly and staring him in the eyes. "Why did you kill men?"

Dr. Jones stared right back, refusing to even attempt a response, regardless of the gag. When he had realized his cover was blown back in his office, he pulled out his pistol and started shooting. He had no delusions about successfully downing an entire squad of elite SS soldiers with nothing but his old officer's luger, but he'd be damned if they were going to take him alive. It seemed that his hope had been in vain.

Vogel was now standing in front of him, and he raised his hand to point at Dr. Jones' face, his finger almost touching the man's nose. "You shot my nephew in the head. He was my sister's only son- how am I going to explain to her that he was killed by a filthy American terrorist?" Vogel slapped Dr. Jones' face with anger, the force causing his entire body to swing and a sharp stabbing pain to fill his already-stressed shoulders.

"He trusted you!" Vogel yelled his normally calm disposition slipping and his inner rage coming to the forefront. "God damn it, how many times did I take him to the castle to see our excavation site and to watch us work? How many times did you show him your artifacts or talk to him about ancient Egyptian culture?"

Dr. Jones' mind was suddenly flooded with memories from his time at Castle Wolfenstein, to an inquisitive child who was exited to learn about archeology and ancient human life. He remembered how the child's eyes lit up when he saw the Da'at Yichud devices that they had both painstakingly unearthed from the Bavarian rubble. He remembered how the boy had told him he wanted to work in a museum when he grew up, to be just like him. _No, not Lucas, it couldn't be him. He didn't want to be a soldier; he should have been in a college right now._ Dr. Jones turned his head back to face the General. _You must have convinced him to join the SS. He had a career ahead of him, and you twisted his mind and put his neck on the line for your own personal vendetta._

Vogel took a moment to regain his composure, and continued on his one-sided conversation with his captive. "I admit, I was very angry when I learned you were in the resistance. We were colleagues for so long, you and I. So many discoveries we made, so many adventures we had, and we did so much for the Reich." Vogel bit his bottom lip. "Or so I thought. This entire time you were a spy for the fucking Americans. According to your OSS file, you did so much damage to our war effort that you probably prolonged it for an extra year." Dr. Jones rolled his eyes. _Get to the damn point and kill me already._

General Vogel, too engrossed in his speech to notice, continued. "But the worst thing you did was to conceal an entire Da'at Yichud vault under my nose." Dr. Jones raised his eyebrows at this, his earlier suspicions unfortunately confirmed.

The operations under the northern corner of Castle Wolfenstein were of maximum classification due to its suspected connection to the ancient Jewish secret society. Dr. Jones and then-colonel Vogel led an archeological team in an effort to explore the ruins and attempt to find a stash of the prized technology. Dr. Jones did find the vault, eventually, but the discovery had come too late for it to be any good to the war effort. Just that morning he had to conceal his despair as he read a newspaper revealing the atomic bombing of New York and the surrender of the American government. He burned his notes and concealed the discovery the best he could, and his secret was safe for more than fifteen years. His efforts were in vain, however, and Dr. Jones now knew that the Nazis had found the vault.

"We could have dealt with every terrorist cell on the planet ten years ago if it were not for your treason," Vogel spat. "How many more brave Aryan men have you killed over the years with your actions?" General Vogel reached over to his table, and picked up a scalpel. "I want so much to eviscerate you, Dr. Jones. To tear out your intestines and boil them in a vat of oil." Vogel slowly turned the scalpel in his hand, testing the blade with one of his midnight-black leather gloves. "But I need you in one piece. I know that you can open that vault, and I need your cooperation. Just know that if you resist my demands…" Vogel's hand quickly shot up, slicing a shallow inch-long line across Dr. Jones' left cheekbone, causing him to wince. "I will make you cooperate." Vogel finished, smiling at the man's suffering. "There, I think we understand each other."

General Vogel walked behind the American once more, walking to the door as if to leave. He stopped, however, and pulled open when sounded like a drawer "one last thing," he said. He came back into Dr. Jones' view, holding a very _special_ museum piece that he must have stolen directly from a diorama. "I believe this is yours?" he asked, holding a very well-worn cowboy hat.

Dr. Jones had that hat since he was a teenager, and he wore it everywhere he went. It had become such an integral part of his appearance that he had used it to fake his own death back before assuming the cover identity of Hans Schneider. When he became the director of the Amerika Museum back in '54, he had been somewhat amused to find that the hat had found its way into a artifact box in the underground storage facility. He had placed it on a cowboy mannequin in the _Wild West_ diorama so that it wouldn't get chewed away by moths in storage.

General Vogel, detecting the recognition in his captive's eyes, laughed. "It figures that you would keep this close to you. People like you, doctor, belong in a museum!" With that, he tossed the hat at the man as he walked out of the room, still laughing at his own joke. Dr. Jones' eyes followed his hat as it bounced off his chest and fell to the floor, just half a yard from his left foot. The metallic door behind him slammed, and he was alone once more, hanging from his wrists.

 _Vogel, you always had such an obsession for the dramatic,_ he thought, swinging his foot forwards to catch the rim of his hat. _And a complete disregard for practicality._ He brought the hat between his feet, and squirmed it up his legs the best he could. Swinging his knees up, he ignored the pain and clenched the rim of the hat between his teeth. He pulled his head back, and shot forwards, throwing the hat into his right hand. Struggling with the lack of mobility caused by the surgically-implanted cuff, he fiddled with the interior opening until his fingers came across a hard object, and he dropped the hat to the floor while holding the four-inch copper rod between his forefinger and thumb. He smiled to himself. _I knew this would come in handy someday._

His fingers moving to jam the electrical circuit in his cuff and set him free, a procedure he was quite comfortable with performing, his focus was set on the more important task of making sure he did not stress the left cuff. He knew that if he were to place his full body weight on a single cuff, it would fill his body with over 20,000 volts of electrical energy until he either died, or exhausted the small nuclear cell held within the cuff itself. He prepared himself to move to his left as soon as his feet touched the ground, so that he might be able to hold up his arm in a way that would not trigger the shock.

Dr. Jones' lack of attentiveness to the task at hand, however, proved to be most unfortunate. As he was nearing the completion of the task, his finger slipped, and the rod fell into a gap and connected itself to the circuitry within. He had only a fraction of a second to consider his mistake before the crackling of an electrical current consumed him, the arcs of pain flowing through him and blotting out his vision and turning his perception into nothing but pure, white, electrical energy.


	10. The Train

**The Train**

When Dr. Jones regained consciousness, he found himself lying on the ground in the fetal position. His body ached in every place imaginable, and he felt as if someone had dipped his hands in boiling oil, but his shoulders were thankfully free of their previous ordeal.

He opened his eyes and tried to right himself into a sitting position, but attempting to move his hands met with burning resistance. He looked at his wrists, and found that the electrical shackles were still cleanly affixed just as they had been before. He looked up at the ceiling, and he could see that both electrical outlets the cords had been previously attacked to were burned black with soot. _I must have burned out the breakers,_ he reasoned. _Melted_ through _the damn cords._

Wincing at the pain, he used his right hand to the left shackle and tapped on the code pad. As he had expected, Vogel used the exact same four-digit pin number on his prison shackles as his storage locker, and the device gave a high-pitched "beep" upon acceptance. He tapped the 'open' button, and he winced as the copper electrodes extracted themselves from his bones.

Dr. Jones let out a surprised scream as the shackle itself opened, the smell of charred flesh wafting to his nose and nauseating his stomach. He saw that he had a third-degree burn line around his entire wrist where the electrical current passed into his body. He tentatively clenched his fist, and was relieved to find that he could still move all of his fingers properly. _Didn't reach the muscle, just singed the skin._

He turned to his other hand, and his heart sank. The entire side of the cuff was blown out, and exposed electrical wires demonstrated the non-functionality of the mechanism. _I'll need a hacksaw to break out of this one._ He twisted his wrist, and found that, at the very least, he could move it. There was significantly less pain than in his other hand, but that worried him- it meant his burns were more severe than in his other hand.

Dr. Jones stood up, and examined the cord firmly anchored to his hand. The first six feet, the insulated section that had been exposed when hanging him earlier, ended with a four-foot non-insulated section of electrical wire. This last section, he surmised, must have been a part of the electrical mechanism hidden in the ceiling. The last foot of the non-insulated section was flayed into about six tendrils, giving the entire length an appearance similar to a whip that may be used by an animal trainer.

Smiling, he coiled the wiring in the way that he always did with his old whip, remembering the years of use he got out of his old one before he had to abandon it during the war. He stopped; however, as he remembered something he saw when Vogel was busy making electrical shackles back at the Castle. _I wonder…_

Dr. Jones turned around to examine the side of the torture chamber that had been behind him when he was hinging in the center. He saw a large metal door against the far wall, and on each side of the door were large metal cabinets with multiple drawers. A squat chair sat in the left corner of the room, which was exactly what he was looking for.

He pulled back his right arm, holding the cord in his hand, and threw his new whip forward, getting a feel for its heavy weight. He missed his first throw, so he pulled it back in and adjusted his aim. The whip coiled around one of the chair's armrests, and Dr. Jones tentatively gave it a pull. As he pulled, the cuff triggered and, as the cord was not properly anchored, the electrical current flared out and engulfed the chair in electrical arcs. The cuff around his hand gave out a pitiful electrical buzz, no more painful than a joy buzzer one might buy at a prank shop. As he coiled his whip, he considered how many ways he could use it to get out of whatever dungeon Vogel had thrown him into this time.

Dr. Jones scanned the floor for his hat, and he found it lying under the table. He walked over to it, and leaned over to pick it up with his free right hand. He brought it up to his chest, turned it to face the right way around, and he placed it firmly on his head. Clenching the whip in his hand, he walked up to the door, and his intent was clear in his mind: he would escape from this prison, he would get back to America, and he would run as far away from the Nazis as he possibly could. As he turned the handle, there was only one issue with his plan, and it came directly to the front of his mind: _I need to find dad._

W + J

"He actually built the damn thing," Dr. Jones exclaimed as he looked out a window in the side of the corridor.

Dealing with the solitary Nazi soldier that had been guarding his prison cell had been pitifully easy with his new whip, as a single electrical shock to the neck had stunned him long enough for the American to snap his neck. He was now peering out a nearby window, watching as buildings passed by at extreme speeds as the massive landtrain drove down the German Autobaun.

Dr. Jones' viewpoint was more than ten feet above the highway, and he could see over the rooftops of the hundreds of cars in the other eight lanes, with the landtrain taking up two full lanes of traffic.

He knew that Vogel had wanted to build such a vehicle since the day they met, and it appears that his aspiration had come true. Dr. Jones looked to his left and right to gauge the layout of the car he was in.

There were four doors on one side of the train car, including the one leading to his torture chamber, and the other ones presumably holding the same function. The four rooms occupied ran along the right-hand side of the train car, and took up most of the room, leaving a rather narrow corridor along the left-hand side for movement. This corridor was lined with windows, giving an open view of the highway and the Berlin skyline beyond.

Viewing the speed of the passing scenery, his heart sank. _We must be going at least two hundred miles an hour. We will reach the rail system in no time._ Dr. Jones knew that this landtrain had the ability to latch on to railroad tracks, allowing it to use the high-speed underground transit system. If he couldn't escape the train before it went underground, he would be stuck onboard until arrival at Castle Wolfenstein- and he did not like his chances of fighting through tens of thousands of the most heavily-armed Nazis in the world.

He noticed a poster on the wall; a convenient map of the train itself. He spotted the red arrow marker, and traced his finger to the "you are here" spot- railcar three, just two cars separating him from the engine. He saw one of the directories labeled "escape car" and he traced it back to the caboose, where the image showed multiple vehicles and what appeared to be an unloading ramp. _That's my ticket out. Just got to get to the back, snag a car, and hightail it out of Germany._

Dr. Jones turned to his left, and walked down the corridor to the rear of the train. Despite the pain, he walked with brisk excitement in his step. He did not know how much he missed the excitement of an adventure, being stuck in that damn museum for so many years. He always thought he wanted to be the director of some academic institution, but now he knew what he had been missing all those years: risk.

As he rounded the corner, Dr. Jones came face-to-face with a very surprised German officer. With lightning reflexes, the American punched him in the face and circled behind him, strangling him with his arm. The officer clawed at is arm with his hands, but Dr. Jones pulled his arm tighter, until the officer finally stopped struggling and passed out. He kept his grip, however, until he was sure that all the life had drained from the Nazi's face. Letting go of the fresh corps, he briefly considered donning his SS uniform- before realizing that the train would likely have a very small garrison, and he would be spotted as an imposter immediately. He instead took the officer's pistol holster and fastened it to his belt. He held the pistol in his left hand, momentarily regretting the metal apparatus occupying his shooting hand. He placed the pistol in the holster, and opened the door.

Dr. Jones found himself in an accordion walkway separating the two train cars, with a door on the other side. He walked over to the other door, and opened it to find a long corridor lined with barred doorways along each wall. He walked up to the first two doors and peered inside to see an empty jail cell, completely bear with the exception of a bed and a bucket. He realized that this must be where Vogel stores his subjects when he is not actively torturing them.

His heart skipped a beat as he heard a faint whisper from the cell behind him. He turned around and looked through the window, and he almost vomited from what he saw. The man, or at least what he assumed used to be a man, was lying on the cot and softly whimpering in pain. His skin had been cut off all over his body, leaving his muscles and bones visible to the air. Dr. Jones also noted that its genitals were missing. He turned away from the window, and looked to the other cells- twelve in total. _Vogel, you sick son of a bitch._ He realized that the other cell must have been for him, meaning that all of the others were currently occupied. He moved his hand to the holster at his side, but then reconsidered his instinct to put them out of their misery. _If I get caught in here, that will be me._

He moved down the hallway with caution, ignoring the cries and moaning emanating from every cell as he passed. Near the end, however, he heard a German voice speaking on the last cell on the right-hand side.

"Come on Hans, we are almost done cleaning this cell," one voice spoke.

"I told you, I am cleaning. I am merely saying that cleaning the feces of an untermensch is hardly work worthy of two soldiers of the SS," the other replied.

Dr. Jones hugged the right side of the corridor, ready to ambush the two bickering soldiers as soon as they left the cell.

"Vogel's medical assistant said that this specimen might not survive the trip to Wolfenstein. We need to clean it up so it can be ready for another one as soon as we get back."

"Don't you think this is a little… wrong?"

"What the fuck are you talking about? These are fucking Jews. They oppressed out people for decades, they made us loose a fucking war for Christ's sake! They deserve it."

"I know what the Jews did, Edgar. I am not questioning that. I am questioning why it is necessary to do these things _to_ them. Just look at that one Dr. Steiner is tending to right now- even the devil himself won't do _that_ to him when he finally dies! Why not just execute them and leave it at that?"

"I don't like your tone, and I do not like how you are questioning the decisions of your General. Shut up right now, or I will report you as a dissident- then maybe we will see how much you 'deserve' what General Vogel does to you…"

"Fine, fine, I'll stop talking about it. It looks like we are done here anyways."

Dr. Jones, clenched his whip as the door opened away from him, concealing him from the duo.

"Right answer," one said, as he exited the cell.

"Come on, help me carry this bag to the incinerator," the other replied, closing the cell door behind him.

Dr. Jones threw his whip forward, catching it on the neck of the first Nazi, and pulled him backwards into the second one. The electrical cord shocked them both, causing them to both tangle together in the cord and flail their arms as the electrical current passed through their bodies. Dr. Jones relaxed the cord, allowing the two Nazis to lay on the ground, both gasping for air. He walked up to them and snapped each of their necks while untangling his whip.

With his whip firmly rolled back into place, he reopened the jail cell and dragged both soldiers into the room. He was thankful that they were both in cotton uniforms rather than battle armor, as he could easily drag them a few feet into cover before exiting the cell and closing the door behind him. He looked over to the next doorway, leading to what he assumed to be some sort of medical facility, and readied himself to deal with this Dr. Steiner.

W + J

Dr. Steiner slammed into the floor with a loud "bang" after Dr. Jones struck him over the head with the butt of his pistol. The doctor had been so engrossed with his work in the medical station that he had not noticed as the American entered the car, assuming that he must have been the two soldiers returning from their janitorial duties. Dr. Jones, returning the pistol to its holster, looked at the naked subject in the hospital bed before him, and shuddered slightly in disgust.

The woman before him had been mutilated almost beyond recognition. Her arms and legs had been removed some time ago, given the healed skin over the stubs left in their place. Her abdomen was open, allowing him to see into here abdominal cavity. Most of the organs were missing, save for a few feet of intestines and a segment of her liver. Her diaphragm was visible, and he could see it slowly pumping air into her lungs. Her chest pushed up and down, struggling against the pain with each breath. Her head, locked to the table with a metal brace, forced her eyes to the ceiling. Dr. Jones followed her gaze, seeing his own reflection in a mirror placed just above the operating table. _He wanted her to watch._

Dr. Jones looked back down to the woman, and followed a medical tube injected into her neck. They led into a strange box next to the bed, covered in dials and knobs and small digital displays. Seeing a power switch, he quickly flipped it, and the displays went dark. The woman's breathing instantly halted, and the heartbeat monitor flatlined. _It was the least I could do._

He leaned over to examine the German doctor. He was unconscious, and a welt was forming where the pistol had struck the back of his bald head, but he was otherwise unharmed. Dr. Jones recognized him as Vogel's assistant, and assumed that he must have overseen his master's victims when they were not being tortured. Dr. Jones picked him up by his shoulders and carried him to the left wall of the medical room, where the walls were lined with nine mortuary shelves. He opened the door of the nearest shelf, and lifted Steiner's body onto the roller as if he were a corpse. He closed the latch, locking the doctor in place.

Dr. Jones continued through the room to the wall on the far end, which cut the train car in half. His hand on the handle, he was close to passing through the door before he looked through the window and gasped. Without thinking, he sprinted to the corpse-shelves and opened the one next to Steiner's, shoving his body feet-first inside and slamming the hatch shut just as the door to the medical room opened. He could hear the unmistakable sound of massive metal feet as two Übersoldaten clanked against the clean metal tiles, followed by the jackboots of three Nazi soldiers sheepishly entering the room a few seconds after the behemoths. Slowly straitening his legs, the American did his best to be as quiet as possible. _How are you going to get out of this one, Indy?_


	11. The Escape

**The Escape**

Dr. Jones tried to control his breaths as his heart pounded against his chest. Two elite Übersoldaten and three of Vogel's men were standing not ten feet from his hiding place amongst the cadaver shelves, ready to tear him to shreds in a second if he revealed his position. Silently, he listened as one of them, his pompous attitude betraying his officer's rank, began to speak in German.

"That lazy Wagner isn't responding on the comms, the idiot. How a damn idiot ever made Lieutenant, I will never know."

"I bet he is neglecting his guard duties," one of the soldiers offered. "You know how people from Danzig can be. He's probably taking a shit or something."

The officer chuckled. "Either way, his earpiece better be out of battery charge or he is a dead man."

The footsteps paused, as the group of soldiers stopped just in front of the lockers.

"Where the hell is the doctor? General Vogel's favorite subject is here, dead without permission, and that fucking doctor has the nerve to leave his post?"

A second soldier spoke up: "Perhaps he had the decency to inform the General of his mistake himself?"

"No matter, these tin cans and I will check up on Wagner and the American, and you two stay here. Look at that panel, there are two corpses ready for incineration. Why don't you dispose of them for the good doctor and then retire to the recreation car?"

 _Shit._

Dr. Jones began to panic as the Übersoldaten exited the car and the two soldiers walked over to the racks. He grabbed his pistol as the latch to the door on his locker began to click, ready to place a bullet in the head of the Nazi as soon as he opened the lid.

"What the fuck are you doing?" The second Nazi said, causing Dr. Jones to pause. "Do you want to carry a mutilated body through this car over your shoulder? These lockers come out on wheels." He heard a mechanical rolling sound as the locker next to him, the one containing the unconscious doctor, was pulled from the wall.

"See? It is just like an ambulance stretcher. We roll it up to the incinerator, lock it in the wall, and the machine pulls the body into the flames on its own. Now, help me roll this thing, it is a two-person job you know."

Dr. Jones lowered his pistol as the two Nazis rolled the stretcher away from the lockers. As he heard the door close, he quickly pushed open the latch on his locker, which flopped open quickly thanks to the loosened latch.

He pulled himself out of the hole and flopped onto the floor, wincing in pain as he landed on his bad leg. As he pulled himself to his feet, he considered his situation, and he realized the true nature of his mistakes. He looked to the left side of the medical car. _That officer is going to find a dead Nazi and an empty jail cell._ He then looked to the right side of the room. _And those soldiers are going to come back here in a few minutes and find a missing cadaver._

Dr. Jones considered his situation. He knew that the alarm on the train would be raised in a matter of seconds no matter what he did, destroying all chances of escape. Perhaps in his younger years he could have stolen a rifle and shot his way through Vogel's men, but he was far beyond his prime. He was still in excellent physical condition for his age, but the years had still taken their toll on him. He rubbed his aching right hip as he surveyed the medical car for anything he could use to escape.

The layout of the room was what could be expected for a hospital- three medical beds lined the opposite wall, each of them with health monitoring equipment. Dr. Jones stood in front of nine cadaver lockers arranged in a 3x3 square, and the rest of the wall was lined by cabinets. The ceiling was of a standard height, lined with sterile white panels and lit by arrays of florescent lights and the silvery glint of two steel ventilation covers.

He looked at the nearest of the two vents, and he smiled. _A little cliché, but that will work._

With no time to lose, Dr. Jones quickly rolled one of the medical beds beneath the vent and climbed up onto it. Rising to his feet, he pushed upwards on the vent, attempting to wiggle it loose. After a few tense seconds of loud metallic banging, the vent finally broke free of its jam and he pushed it open. Happy to see that the vent was plenty wide enough to crawl through, he pulled himself up and into the vent.

He pulled the vent closed behind him just as the two Nazis re-entered the room with the empty cadaver cart, ready to collect the second corpse.

 _You aren't killing me today,_ he thought as he crawled through the vent.

Suddenly a voice echoed through the ventilation shaft, booming loudly as an officer's voice flowed through dozens of intercoms and through the ceiling vents, right into his ears:

"Alarm! Alarm! Prisoner escape in progress, soldiers down! Get to your stations and find him!"

He gritted his teeth. _Why can't this ever be easy?_

W + J

Dr. Jones felt as if he had been crawling for months. The ventilation shaft extended across the entire train, allowing him to make excellent progress without having to deal with any of the many Nazis currently searching the train for him. So far, he had passed through a sleeper car, a dining car, two storage cars, and he was currently making his way through a recreation center.

As he approached a second vent, he paused- there were two Nazi soldiers dressed in their everyday clothes, their body armor stowed in their cabins their rifles held loosely in their hands as if the alarm had interrupted their resting periods. They were leaning against a wall directly below him, and he would have to wait for a distraction before he could pass.

"I hate fighting terrorists. Back during the war, you were always on the offensive, and you knew exactly where the enemy was. All I had to do was point and shoot- none of this 'get up in the middle of your break and wait for someone to jump out of the walls and stab you in the back with a knife' bullshit."

"Hey, this is still better than my last station. I was in Jerusalem, and I had to deal directly with the Jewish and Muslim locals."

"Jews belong in gas chambers, why in the hell did our dear leaders send so many of them to the holy lands?"

"The way my superiors explained it to me, it is for the purpose of eternal punishment. If we exterminated the entirety of their race, that would be the end of it, and they would no longer be able to pay for what they have done to us. Instead our leaders have decided that a Jewish population will be kept alive in the Holy lands, where they will forever be subject to the fist of Aryan justice."

"So you had a position where you had an unlimited source of untermensch ass to kick, and you are complaining about that?"

"No, it was not that simple. The Jews are subservient, they have learned their place. It is the fucking Muslims we have to deal with. We give them their own lands, we allow them to keep their backwards monkey religion, and how to they repay us? They constantly attack us and the Jews. They hate the Jews almost as much as we do, and they do not care about punishment, they just want them gone. They are not like American or French terrorists, they just strap explosives to themselves and blow themselves up next to civilians and soldiers alike."

"Civilians? You mean you…"

"That's right, I had to protect the fucking Jews from terrorists. That was my job for two years, protecting Jews."

"Good God, you are right, this is WAY better than that."

Dr. Jones heard a door opening out of sight, and a soldier in full battle gear ran from the back of the car, stopping in front of the two soldiers. "What the fuck are you two standing here for? Can't you lazy assholes hare that fucking alarm? The prisoner has escaped, and he is killing our comrades everywhere. Get your armor on and report to your post!"

"Guarding the rec room *is* our post," the one on the left lazily replied, his rifle held casually in his hands.

"And besides," the second replied, "the prison car is on the other end of the train. He is miles away."

The new soldier slapped the insubordinate guard, knocking him to the ground. "You fucking idiot! He has been killing lazy men like you all over the fucking place, he even got as far as the medical car, probably because we have so many imbecels like you who have no idea what 'combat readiness' means."

The soldier clambered to his feet, nursing his bruised jaw. "Yes Seargent, I understand. C'mon Fritz, let's get our…"

Dr. Jones gasped as the sound of an explosion reverberated along the ventilation shaft, the metal walls magnifying the BANG as the entire train car shivered.

"Is that coming from behind us? God damn it, the American must have passed us! Come on you two, lets go!"

The three Nazis hurried out of his sight and, glad for the distraction, Dr. Jones continued to crawl along the shaft, puzzled over what caused the diversion. _Did something rupture a gas line?_

His ears rang as a second, larger explosion occurred. This one, however, was followed up with the telltale automatic gunshots of two sturmgewher firing at once, alongside the frantic screams of several German soldiers.

 _What the hell? Is there someone else trying to escape this train?_ He thought. _Whoever he is, he doesn't sound like the type to ask questions. I better be careful…_

Dr. Jones' thoughts were interrupted by screeching metal and the familiar adrenaline rush that coincides with a weak section of ventilation tubing tearing and dropping the elderly man to eight feet to the floor below. He hit the floor flat on his belly, and he winced as the air was evacuated from his lungs.

Struggling to breathe, he lifted his head. He had landed in the middle of a large room that must have been a dining car, with around a half-dozen tables and chairs hastily thrown against the left and right walls, clearing the floor of obstacles. A large mahogany dining table was jammed, on its side, against the entrance to the car approximately fifteen feet in front of him. In the space between the far wall and him stood an entire quad of ten Nazi soldiers and an officer, all of them crouched next to the walls and leveling their rifles at the door, although now they were far more interested in the man who had just fallen through a hole in the ceiling.

Dr. Jones stared at the Nazi officer as he approached him, unable to move or even reach for his pistol as he struggled for a breath. The officer leisurely approached him, methodically drawing his pistol and leveling it at his head. The officer smiled and was on the verge of speaking when a bullet struck his face, spraying blood and brain matter backwards and showering his men.

The American felt two feet land to each of his sides, with an unseen assailant standing directly over him. He winced as two machine guns opened fire simultaneously above his head, the noise deafening his senses. He watched as all of the soldiers before him crumpled to their feet, unable to mount any resistance before their chests could be perforated with dozens of 7.92 rounds. The gunfire eventually ended, and the man stepped to the side, dropping one of the rifles and replacing the magazine on the other one. Dr. Jones looked over to him, and gasped.

The man was around 6'3", built like a gorilla and sporting an inch-long beard. A large scar crossed his face, and he appeared to be wearing some form of collar around his neck. He was wearing casual clothing, with an old 1947-issue ammunition belt slung around his shoulder. What caught his attention, however, was the blood- the assailant was almost completely covered in blood, the red liquid seeping into every creative of his jacket, and several spray-lines of broken veins crisscrossing his face. The assailant slung the rifle band over his arm, looked down at Dr. Jones, and did the last thing he could possibly expect him to do- he saluted him.

"Colonel Jones, I am Captain Blaskowicz. I'm here for your evac."


	12. The Colonel

**The Colonel**

Blaskowicz held his salute for an uncomfortable few seconds before he realized that the man before him was not planning on returning it. The Colonel was attempting to get to his feet, and despite his stoic demeanor B.J. could see that he was in pain. He reached out his right hand to help him to his feet, and the man accepted the assistance with his left hand- a thick cable was twisted around his bloodied right arm. As he got to his feet, he straitened his hat and looked B. J. directly in the eye.

"I'm on a landtrain filled with Nazis, In the heartland of the Reich, and the goddamn Grim Reaper himself comes to my rescue?" He chuckled. "Bullshit. What the hell is going on here?"

Blaskowicz replied. "Colonel, the resistance needs you. And by the looks of things…" He nodded his head at the corpses surrounding them, "you need the resistance."

The Colonel grunted in acknowledgement, his eyes intently scanning Blaskowicz from head to toe. He appeared to be measuring him, determining if he should be trusted or not. Eventually, he came to a decision. "What's your plan for getting off this train?"

"I would defer to yours."

The man looked back at him, his mouth slightly open in shock- he was not expecting that answer. "You don't have a plan? You are on a rescue mission, deep into enemy territory, with fuck-all in the way of support, and you do not even have a plan for how to get out?"

Blaskowicz shrugged. "It usually works out."

The Colonel sighed and, without another word, turned around and walked toward the barricaded door at the rear of the compartment. He waved his hand. "There's a few vehicles in the caboose designed for high-speed evacuation. Help me clear this mess."

Blaskowicz followed him, and together they began to remove the tables blocking the doorway. "The next two cars should be clear, Colonel. I dropped in on the caboose, and I believe I saw the vehicles you were talking about." He groaned as he lifted a large mahogany dining table, pulling it past his leg and setting it behind him. "Their drivers are dead."

With the table out of the way the door was finally clear. Blaskowicz pulled open the hatch, readied his rifle, and motioned for the Colonel to follow him through. "Don't call me Colonel" he said, as he passed through the doorway behind him. "I'm not a Colonel of anything anymore."

"Understood, Dr. Jones," Blaskowicz replied.

The man sighed. "Call me Indy."

He silently acknowledged the order with a nod as he pulled open the locker bar on the door at the end of the connection tube. He had decided earlier that it would be easier to climb through the vents than to blow the door. They entered the car, and Blaskowicz took another look at his handywork.

The car had been used as a staging area for Übersoldaten, and there were four mounds of metal and flesh scattered about the area. Diagnostic carts, toolboxes, and storage crates were littered throughout the large workshop, and four empty Übersoldaten tubes stood on the wall to his left and right, two on each side. There was a stepladder set in the middle of the room below an opening in the ceiling, the grate placed unceremoniously on the ground beneath the ladder.

The two men weaved their way through the mess, their boots clanking off the ribbed steel plating. The car was quiet, aside from the constant hum of the electrical circuits, and it was making him nervous. He was certain that he had cleared this car, but he was more than capable of dealing with a few injured Nazis- it was the mission itself he was worried about. _It can't be that easy. There must be a catch._

They reached the next door, and he reached out his hand for the hatch- and the entire train car lurched beneath his feet with a deafening metallic SCREEEEEEECCCCHHHH, the inertia flinging the men backwards and almost knocking them off their feet. When it ended, Indy gasped, and quickly lunged for the door. He opened it, and a wind suddenly pulled air through the door as the car was filled with the stench of gasoline, diesel, and burning rubber. The caboose had detached from the rest of the train, and a gap of more than ten feet separated them from the disconnected car.

They watched the open road behind them as the caboose, rolling without power at over 200 mph, rapidly lost speed and fell behind the rest of the train. Suddenly, when it was a few dozen meters behind, the front brakes lurched, flinging the massive car head-over-heals like a child striking a rock with his bike. The car lurched through the air, angled towards Blaskowicz' right, and crashed on top of more than a dozen civilian vehicles in the adjoining lane. The men flinched as several diesel fuel tanks exploded, the fireball engulfing the train car as it finally came to a stop, quickly falling away into the distance.

Indy grabbed Blaskowicz' shoulder and let out a single word: " _run_."

As the older man ran at full speed, Blaskowicz held back as he followed close behind him. Although their only option for escape was a burning pile of steel and rubber, they both reasoned that there would be time to worry about such things when they were no longer in danger of suffering the same fate. They finally reached the doorway, and they both pulled themselves through the doors.

Not a second after they were safe inside the recreation car, the train lurched forwards once more, this time met with an immediate vacuum effect from the opened doorway. Blaskowicz watched as the second car pulled away before the wind pulled the doorway shut. Blaskowicz and Indy turned and ran once more to the end of the dining hall and pulled open the door to a common area.

The common area took up two-thirds of the rec car, with the door on the opposite side leading to the next car. The long room was filled with various amenities- dart boards, a pool table, a poker table, couches around a color television, and even a handful of arcade machines.

Scattered throughout the room, and staring directly and Blaskowicz and Indy, were a dozen soldiers with surprised and panicked looks on their faces. None of them were properly armored, but they were all carrying their rifles and SMG's with the skill expected of Germany's finest.

The Americans acted immediately, raising their weapons and firing into the men. Blaskowicz' sturmgewehr tore two men to pieces in a single second, while Indy expertly placed two pistol rounds into the head of a third.

The two Nazis closest to the pool table combined their strength to flip it on its side as makeshift cover, and the third crouched behind one of the arcade machines. Blaskowicz sprinted towards the table while firing his rifle in a suppressive action, and he rammed his shoulder into the top end of the table. The ramshackles and his bodyweight flipped the table back over and broke the legs, crushing the Nazis.

Blaskowicz stood up to face the third, only to see Indy strangling the man with the cord rapped around his hand. A satisfying crunch, and he dropped the lifeless corpse to the floor. They nodded to each other and continued to run to the end of the car. Indy was only a few feet from the door when the entire train car lurched, knocking both men to their feet. The ground rumbled beneath them, and the lights in the car turned off at it disconnected from the rest of the train.

Blaskowicz deftly pulled himself to his feet, and he grabbed Indy by his collar. He scrambled the last few steps to the door and pulled it open. The train was pulling away from them, but their car was not falling behind as quickly as the other two cars had. He ran through the connecting tube, securing Indy over his right shoulder, and leaped over the gap. He reached his hands for the doorway, and as he slammed onto the back of the train car he grabbed the door handle with his left hand.

He pulled Indy and himself onto the small ledge in front of the door and tried the handle- it was locked. He lowered Indy onto the ledge next to him, his feet steadying themselves precariously on the ledge. Both men watched the car slow down behind them, and they noticed that the train had slowed down considerably without their notice. The civilian vehicles passed in the adjoining lanes as if they were standing in one place, and when the detached car's brakes engaged it merely stopped, rather than flying into traffic.

"We're slowing down so that the train can enter the underground railway system," Indy gasped, catching his breath. "Once we're underground, we won't be out until we reach Wolfenstein."

Blaskowicz leaned over, examining the side of the car. It was bare, solid steel on his left, but on the other side, there was a ladder leading to the roof of the train. Indy followed his gaze, and he saw it as well. He carefully pulled himself from the doorway and began to climb, and Blaskowicz followed him as soon as the way was clear. They pulled themselves on top of the car, ignoring the painful wind, and ran across the train.

As they ran the windspeed steadily decreased, allowing them to run faster than before. They were able to make significant progress without doorways, furniture, and Nazis in their way, and they had passed over three cars by the time the next car detached.

Their fortunes, however, did not last very long. Blaskowicz saw the train engine turn off the Autobahn, each of the cars following slowly behind it, and towards the entrance of a tunnel placed conspicuously on a hill in the countryside. The train was moving more slowly than it had been before, but he estimated that they would be in the tunnel in less than thirty seconds.

Indy suddenly yelled directly into his ear, "Hand onto me." Blaskowicz immediately grabbed him by the chest as Indy swung his cable around his head. He lurched forwards, connecting the cable to a streetlight as the train passed and lifting both men off their feet.

Blaskowicz held on as they swung around the pole, his gut sinking from the gee-forces, as Indie screamed. After a few seconds Blaskowicz heard a gut-wrenching tearing sound as the forces stopped and he soured through the air with the man in his arms.

B.J. Instinctively rolled when he hit the ground, cradling Indy in his arms the best he could. The blow knocked the air out of his lungs, and he let go of the man as to avoid crushing him. When he finally came to a stop, he was lying on his back. He opened his eyes, struggling to take a breath in, and groaned. He saw a black dot int the distance, and when he covered his eyes, he could see a helicopter in the distance. Furgus' voice crackled through the radio.

"God damn it Blasko, did you just jump off a bloody train? Do you have the Colonel?"

Blaskowicz looked around him and saw Indy on the ground roughly twenty feet from him. He was face-down in the dirt, and he was covered in blood from his arm- his hand had been severed. From what Blaskowicz could tell he was unconscious but alive- barely.

"Most of him."


	13. Valor

**Valor**

"In other news, beloved Hollywood actor John Wayne was arrested today on charges of terrorism, treason, and the murder of three soldiers of the Wehrmacht."

Heinrich took one last swig from his beer, and clicked the empty bottle against his armrest.

"The fifty-five year old American, best known for his leading role in the blockbuster hit _How the West Was Won_ , was found to be leading a terrorist cell in Los Angeles."

He stared at the newsman on the television as he felt on the left side of his wheelchair for the rest of his six-pack. He groaned as his hand fell upon an empty box.

"His trial and execution are scheduled for this Friday, and is expected to be the most watched television event since the execution of Terror Billy…"

The television screen shattered with a loud _crunch_ as the beer bottle struck the reporter's face. Heinrich shuddered, and clenched his fists. It had been two weeks since the battle in the museum, and he had been discharged a week ago. The doctor told him his spinal cord was completely severed at the L2 vertebrae, and that he would likely never walk again. He was put on a waiting list to be examined by the best surgeon in the world, but he knew full well what happens to cripples if they don't get better.

"Execution my ass" he said, rolling his chair away from the wall. He was a guest in his Aunt Engel's apartment, and he had just destroyed her new television; the least he could do was clean up the mess before she and his sister came home from the funeral.

He rolled the chair to the broom closet and stopped his chair directly in front of the door. He turned the knob and pulled the door, only for it to come to a stop as in clanked against his left wheel. He rolled his chair back, moved it to the left, and wheeled his chair until his knees hit the wall. He then threw open the door and reached for the broom. As he grasped for the handle, he realized he was too far away to reach it. He once again pulled his chair back, right, and then forwards into the closet. He firmly grabbed the broom and the dustpan, placed them on his lap, and wheeled out of the closet, only to turn and find the door blocking the hallway. He tried to pull the door back, but his chair was too close for it to close. He wheeled his chair back, but the door swung back open and out of his reach. He threw the broom and pan at the door in frustration just as the apartment doorbell rang.

"Engle's not home!" He shouted.

The bell rang again, and Heinrich groaned. He turned his chair around and rolled to the entryway at the end of the hallway. He was too short to see through the peephole, so he cracked open the door and saw Unterscharführer Jans.

Jans was wearing his dress uniform, the sharp blue fabric decorated with a dozen war medals and a golden Kriegsmarine symbol over his right chest pocket. His hat set crooked on his head, and his hair freshly washed but poorly combed. Jans was never one for thorough grooming, even in the most formal of occasions.

"Hello Jans" he said, barely concealing his anger. _What makes that bastard think he has a right to come here, after he did this to me._

"Heil, Untersturmfüher." He replied in a neutral tone. "Why aren't you at his funeral?"

"What funeral?" he replied.

Jans rolled his eyes slightly. "Don't play dumb with me, you asshole. Your father is being put to rest today, and you are sitting here drinking and moping about yourself?" He crossed his arms.

"Like my father would want a god damn cripple at his funeral." Heinrich tried to slam the door, but his friend blocked it with his hand. He pushed the door open, forcing Heinrich to roll his chair backwards.

"Is that what this is all about?" Jans said, surprised at what his friend had said. "I knew your father too, Heinrich. He would want his son to be at his funeral."

"My father," Heinrich snapped, "would want his son to die honorably on a battlefield or in a bed at the age of eighty; not euthanized for being a fucking leach on society."

"They… I…" Jans Stumbled. "They are not going to euthanize you, you imbecilic!" He calmly explained, as if to a child. "You are not a civilian, you are not an enlisted man, you are an officer of the fucking SS-Seelandkorp, and you received your injuries while courageously leading your men in battle."

Heydrich snorted.

"If anything, you are going to get a promotion and you will spend the rest of your career working a desk job for an obscenely large paycheck while having a thousand underlings competing to see how far they can shove their noses up your asshole." Jans sighed. "Unless you start acting like a cowardly leech, in which case" he grinned, "I should probably put you out of your misery right now."

Heydrich considered this for a moment, and then relaxed his shoulders. _You're right, Jans. You are always right._

"Now look, you have already missed most of the reception, but the ceremony itself does not start for another half hour. There are at least two generals and three colonels there, and if they see you _bravely_ show up and pay your respects then they will have no choice but to pull strings for you." Jans finished. "Are you coming, or what?"

Heydrich sighed. "Fine, but I don't have my uniform anymore."

Jans smiled. "It's in the car, cleaned up and mostly repaired. You can get dressed in the back. Let's go."

W + J

Jans pushed Heinrich's wheelchair down the paved trail, the duo catching curious glances from passer's by. Heinrich was wearing his black battledress uniform, the same he had been wearing during the battle at the museum. Jans had skillfully sewn it back together so well that none of the corrections showed, aside from the bullet in his cap. As Heydrich held it in his lap, he was glad that it had not been repaired. The bulled was lodged in the Totenkopf in such as way that it looked as if the skull was eating the bullet, with the metal split apart along the seams of its mouth. If he truly could proceed through the ranks of the SS, this hat would make a truly intimidating war trophy indeed.

The two took a turn in the trail, and they could see the funeral ahead of them. Heinrich's father was being buried in the Berlin Military Cemetery, an honor bestowed only to the most decorated veterans of the Great War. His casket was in a crane over his grave, draped in the Swastika flag of the Reich, in front of twenty rows of chairs filled with mourners. Directly in front of the casket stood a man in a General's dress uniform, and ten riflemen stood at the ready behind the casket. Nobody payed them any mind as Heinrich was slowly wheeled down the aisle, coming to a stop at an empty spot in the front row. His aunt Engle scowled from the seat next to him, his sister sitting in her lap. She was not a mean woman by any means, but she was old and traditional- and she hated nothing more than tardiness.

Heinrich ignored her glare and fixated his attention at the General, who was in the middle of the eulogy.

"… With valor and dignity. Alfred Heydrich died while defending his daughter and civilian during a terrorist attack, and when he his eyes closed for the last time, he had a pistol in his hand." The general paused.

"Alfred was not only the most valiant man who I have ever had the pleasure of commanding, he was also a loving father. Today he is survived by his daughter, Anna, and his son, Heinrich, both of whom are with us here today. We are here not only to morn the loss of Alfred, but to share in their loss as well, for few here can understand what they are feeling right now."

Heinrich stared at his step-father's casket, and he allowed his mind to wander. He remembered when the bomb dropped on New York, and how terrified his mother was as they huddled in their cellar. He remembered being a small child under German occupation, and how he felt so confused and scared in the new world.

And then he remembered how Alfred had come into his life and ended all his troubles. He made his mother stop crying at night, and he taught him how to stop being afraid. He was there to love him and care for him when he needed it most- and now he was gone.

Heinrich's attention was brought back to the present when Jans patted his shoulder. He looked around, and everyone was Heiling. He quickly raised his arm in salute as well.

"God bless Germany, and God bless Alfred Heydrich!"

Somber music played as the casket lowered into the grave, and his aunt began to cry. When the casket rested at the base of the grave, the general gave an order to the riflemen, and they raised their rifles and fired. And the funeral was complete.

Heinrich stared at the grave as the crowd around him shuffled around. Some talked amongst eachother, discussing how they knew him in life. Others came offering their sympathies to Heinrich, but he ignored them, too deep in thought.

As the crowd filtered away, and even as his aunt and sister left, Jans stayed silent at his side. Heinrich knew he respected him and loved him dearly as a friend, and he was sorry that his friend had to deal with him in this state.

Jans tapped Heinrich's shoulder once again, and he looked up and finally noticed the soldier who had been waiting patiently for his attention. He was a general, but not the one that had given the eulogy. He must have been standing out of his line of sight, or perhaps Heinrich had simply not noticed him. Either way, he knew instantly that this was not a man he wanted to ignore.

Before him stood Oberstgruppenführer Vogel, his unnaturally long smile on his lips and his arms crossing his chest. "I believe we have matters to discuss, Untersturmfüher."


	14. The Arrangement

**The Arrangement**

The sharp *clang* of metal striking metal reverberated through the corridors of the vast U-Boat, followed in short succession by metal striking flesh and an arguably effeminate shriek. Blaskowicz, who had until then been leisurely making his way towards the firing range, broke into a sprint and leaped up the stairs into the range itself, prepared to render his assistance in stopping whatever violent incident had transpired under his watch. Instead, he gave a moment's hesitation in examining the scene before him.

Colonel Jones and Fergus were standing in the center of the room, and at first glance appeared to be fighting. The Colonel was sporting a fresh red hand-shaped mark on the side of his face, and in his right hand he was firmly clutching Fergus' robotic arm with a vice-grip. Blaskowicz saw the metallic glint of the new prosthetic, a mechanical replacement constructed and then implanted by Set Roth just that morning. The scientist himself was standing several feet away from the two, rapidly spitting out instructions and warnings as he cautiously edged himself closer to them. Sigrun Engel was doing her best to ignore the commotion, standing at the firing line and emptying her SMG into the targets downrange. This was clearly not the first similar event to occur on this day.

Colonel Jones spoke first, in a surprisingly level and understanding tone despite the seemingly violent scene. "Okay, I can feel my hand clutching this time, but I still can't seem to make it let go."

"You've got to really want it to go, you have to control it. She has a mind of her own, and if she don't respect you she will do whatever she wants" Fergus replied. "Teach her who is in charge."

"Although that may be good advice," Roth interjected, taking a step closer to them, his hands reaching out, "In this situation it might me safer for me to deactivate the mechanism and remove it manually."

The American gritted his teeth and scrunched his face in concentration. Then, after little more than a second, his hand let go, and the Scotsman pulled his arm free. Both of the men then examined their robotic appendages, scanning them for damage. "You scratched the paint a little," Fergus complained, "but nothin's bent or broken."

Set Roth relaxed his shoulders, and exhaled a sigh of relief. "At least you didn't lose control until he slapped you, this time. Just keep practicing, and it should be safe for use in a few days."

The Colonel grinned. "Thanks again, Set. I'll miss the old one, but I can make this work." He then turned to Blaskowicz, who had until this point been standing by and watching the disturbance in idle amusement. "Ah, there you are. I assume you want to have a word with me, now that I'm not stuck in a bed anymore."

Blaskowicz nodded. "We're all going to speak with you. Grace is waiting on the bridge for all of us. Let's not keep her waiting for too long."

"You didn't tell me there's a whole conference I have to prepare for," Indy joked. "I usually book those a few weeks ahead of time. I'll need to write down my notes, cross-reference with the established research..." he trailed off.

"I think I could find you half a pencil and a blank sheet of paper," Fergus responded, patting him on the shoulder with his normal arm. "If you're lucky.

W + J

"There are a lot of secrets buried under Wolfenstein Castle," Indy began. "I have a suspicion that you are after one of them in particular." He nodded to the doorknob, resting at the center of the conference table next to several folders, photographs, and loose documents.

The leadership of the resistance surrounded the table, all eyes on the Doctor. They had almost lost one of their most valuable assets in rescuing him at the last moment, and even then, they had to wait weeks for him to return to an operational state after his injuries. They needed him to work with them.

"I found the vault after a few years of excavating the catacombs under the castle. It took me a while to figure out what it was and what was inside it, and when I did I tried to call it in to the OSS. I thought that the things inside could change the tide of the war, if we could find a way to extract the technology out of Germany." He continued. "The Nazis dropped the atomic bomb on New York the next day. There was no hope for victory after that, even with the technology. America's will to fight on was broken."

"I did my best to cover my tracks, and I reset every trap I had disarmed or set off on my examination of the ruins. I hid the entrance behind a solid brick wall, and I falsified the geological reports to hide that section of the cave system. For ten years, I believed I was successful in hiding that technology from the Germans." He slowly lowered his head and shook it from side to side, regret handing on his shoulders like iron chains. "On that day you came to get me, my old colleague- Vogel- came to me with a similar request to yours. From what I can tell, they have already found the vault."

A deafening silence filled the room for several moments as the members of the resistance hanged on that revelation, before Grace interceded with the question that they were all thinking. "Have the Nazis already looted the vault."

The doctor shook his head. "No, definitely not. For one thing, they would need to collect all the artifacts" he pointed at the doorknob, "and the fact that you have one proves they have not broken into the vault. Not even an atomic bomb could break the seal on that thing at its weakest point."

"That," he continued, "and Vogel wanted me to assist him in his work on the vault. He even gave me an opportunity to go peacefully without pulling the whole 'I know you are an American spy' card. For a man like Vogel, that was an extremely generous offer. He wanted my enthusiastic and voluntary cooperation because he knows that he cannot break the vault without me."

"And what of the advanced technology Vogel was using?" Blaskowicz asked. "I've seen force fields before, but always on extremely large vehicles, and with external power sources. He had one on a belt buckle."

Jones looked at him and shrugged slightly. "I don't know where he got it, but it was definitely not from the vault. I got a glimpse of it when they captured me, and the tech doesn't look Da'at Yichud." He thought for a moment. "I think I saw something similar in one of General Strasse's journals a few years back."

"Deathshead." Blaskowicz replied. "He's messing with Deathshead's technology."

"Maybe," He shrugged, "maybe not. Wherever he got it, it wasn't from the vault."

"Do you think you can get us into the vault?" Grace asked. "If we are going to win this revolution, we need that stockpile."

"I could help you break into the vault…" he replied, crossing his arms. "…but I am not going to."

Silence filled the room. All eyes focused on the Colonel, some blinking in confusion- and others narrowing in rage.

"What do you mean, you ain't gunna help us!" Horton shouted, his fists clenching the table. "After all we've done for you, after saving your ass and pullin' you outa German hands, after makin' you a new arm, and after givin' you another chance to do what's right, you turn your back on us?"

"Yeah, he's right!" Fergus added. "I had to fly my chopper through Berlin's air defenses twice, putting my own neck on the line to follow that train without getting shot down, just for you to say that you're not going to help us with the one thing we saved you to do." He slammed his fist on the table and pointed it at Blaskowicz. "And that's not to mention Blasko here who, by the way, had to fight his way through several hundred Nazis to save your sorry ass."

"You don't think I don't know that!" Jones shouted at him, his face red with anger.

Fergus, socked by the outburst from a typically calm man, allowed him to speak.

"Look. At. This. World." He pointed at the nearby stand with a world map on the wall, crossed-out assassination targets dotting the continents. "The Nazis are everywhere. Berlin, Paris, Moscow, Tokyo, Delhi, Mombasa, London, Rio, Mexico City, Washington, L.A., Denver, Anchorage- and those are just the cities with permanent garrisons. There are over ten thousand active infantry divisions, countless reserve personnel, millions of tanks and aircraft, dozens of orbital installations and military bases on the moon and Venus. They have nuclear stockpiles that could turn this planet into green glass a dozen times over. The war is lost. It was lost fifteen years ago." He paused, and sighed. "The only thing that can come from a 'revolution' is even more death and destruction then before. You are not going to win, and fancy gadgets are not going to change that."

"This isn't about _what_ might happen _if_ there is a rebellion, Colonel." Blaskowicz spoke up. "There are riots and uprising happening right now, all across America. The Revolution is already happening, and nobody- us or the Nazis- can stop it, no matter how hard they try." He continued sternly. "And if those 'fancy gadgets' can give us a better chance of victory than none at all, then it's worth it."

Jones sighed, deflated, reconsidering himself, and to everyone's surprise, he chuckled. "I don't know what's gotten into myself, I used to be so optimistic. I guess that's the reason I've held on myself all these years, hoping that I could be of use again someday." He looked to Grace. "I'm grateful for all you've done for me, I really am. But if I'm going to help you, I need one more favor."

"What do you need us to do"

"I need him," he pointed at Blaskowicz, "to help me save my father."


	15. Revenge

**Revenge**

"Did you ever think the two of us would ever see ourselves in the Volkshalle itself, to convene with a General of the SS for a secret project with a short invitation list?"

Heinrich shook his head, smiling slightly. "No, I most certainly did not. I guess you were right about making an impression at the funeral, Jans. It really did pay off for the both of us. "

"I didn't think it would pay off instantly" Jans remarked.

Constructed in 1947, the Volkshalle was the center of Hitler's Germania, the new Berlin at the top of the world. The seat of Nazi government, it was a massive domed building constructed of the finest marble and granite stone, as opposed to the uberconcrete used in most of the city. Although the seat of parliament and the civilian government, it was a popular place for the discussion of military matters in leu of the oberkomando, especially after its questionable relocation to Venus in recent months. The grand chamber halls and conference rooms were often occupied by lower generals and officers attempting to give their proposals an air of 'grandness' despite their often boring and bureaucratic nature.

The two men proceeded down the wide corridor in search of room 337, Jans dutifully pushing his luetenant's wheele chair past government officials in expensive suites and guards in ornate uniforms. Several passed glances towards the cripple, but all averted their eyes at recognition of the SS patches on their shoulders. They soon found their room just a handful of minutes ahead of schedule and entered through the double mahogany doors.

They were mildly surprised to find that the meeting was in one of the smallest conference rooms in the entire building. A mere two rows of seating circled around central podium, with the walls only stretching ten meters in either dimension. A dozen men in military dress uniform mingled about the seating and the open area, discussing a variety of matters. Heinrich noted uniforms of every military branch from the Wehrmacht to the Luftwaffe, and even one man wearing a metal signifying service on the Moon base. He was surprised to see that he was not the only cripple invited to the meeting, as he spotted several who were missing hands, arms, and eyes. One of them, an eyepatch-wearing Wehrmacht Generalmajor with a cane and a limp, approached him.

"You must be Untersturmfüher Heydrich, I presume?"

"That is correct."

"I am Generalmajor Steer," the man said, reaching his hand out in greeting. "It is good to meet you."

"Well met," he responded, shaking his hand. He noticed a scar running across Steer's cheekbone and brow ridge, passing under the patch on his eye. Such scars are typically attained in saber duels and worn as a fashion. Some Nazis even packed horsehair in the wound to make the scar deeper. This one, however, had been well mended and sealed by an expert physician. It was also uncharacteristic of a saber wound and looked more as if someone had tried to split the man's head open with a hatchet.

"I heard about your actions at the Amerika museum, and I have to say that I'm impressed."

"That happened just two weeks ago." Heinrich narrowed his eyes. "And it was classified far above your paygrade."

The man was taken aback slightly by the hostile response. "General Vogel told me about it himself. Most officers are content to take cover and let their men die for them, but not you- you put your life on the line in an attempt to save one of your own. You made a real impression on him."

Heydrich frowned at him. "I failed."

The officer sighed.

"I faced… _Him…_ once," he motioned to his eye and his leg, "and I know exactly how you feel. That monster has hurt a lot of people. Even when we think he's dead, he comes back to bite us in the ass ten times as hard. Don't feel bad about yourself because you personally could not stop him, thousands of men have tried and failed. All we can do is keep ourselves together and try again next time."

"Easy enough for you to say"

"I was in a chair just like yours not too long ago. Doctors giving me the whole 'you'll never walk again' bullcrap." He swung his cane in a circle for emphasis. "I'll give you the number for my guy, after Vogel speaks. He works free for SS and officers. Stem cell technology is amazing these days."

Jans interrupted him. "Hey guys, I think we should find our seats."

They had been too engrossed in conversation to notice, but a man had approached the podium at the center of the hall. He did not need to mark his entrance, as the room fell silent as everyone saw him and entered their seats. General Vogel always knew how to control a crowd, and he had their full attention as he began to speak.

W+J

"As you are all aware," he began, "the Amerika colonies are destabilizing every day. Riots are breaking out in every major city, and armed malitias are engaging military and police forces in certain rural areas. These uprisings were sparked primarily by a television broadcast that we were thankfully able to contain to the North American continent."

A projector screen behind the General lowered, displaying a talk show that is particularly popular in the Amerika colonies. Heydrich recognized the woman being interviewed as SS-Obergruppenführer Irene Engel, the chief of police in the Amerika colonies.

Suddenly, a large man enters from the left side of the screen and attacked the woman, slicing off her arm and then wedging a hatchet in her skull. He whispered something to her, before breaking her head in two. Heydrich's blood boils as the man faced the camera, and he recognizes Captain William Joseph Blaskowicz.

"What the fuck?" An older man a few seats away curses.

"He's alive?" Another says.

A third outright shouted. "That's not fair! I was in Washington when they executed him! I was in the front fucking row; I saw her chop his head off! How is he alive?"

The rabble was silenced with a single raised finger from the general, as he paused the video. "I will spare you the rest of his anti-German anarchic drivel, but the rest of the video was a call for all people of the Amerika colonies to commit treason, a call of which the cowards are gladly answering.

"He may be a martyr for these untermensch, a Jesus-like idol who cannot be killed, but I will put down any one of you who is stupid enough to be bought over by such nonsense."

The video zoomed in on Blaskowicz' neck, showing a strange metal ring placed just above the shoulders.

"This device is being used to graft his head onto a stolen ubersoldaten prototype. He is not immortal. The execution would have killed him if left uninterrupted, but it appears that his terrorist friends collected his head before it could die of asphyxiation."

Somehow, it improved Heydrich's spirit to know that _he_ was not some sort of supernatural boogeyman, just an ordinary cheater.

"The problem with past attempts to put this bastard down did not fail due to any superiority on his part, they failed because previous attempts to too invested in putting on a show and not in attaining results.

 _You hypocritical son of a bitch_ he thought, not dumb enough to speak such an insult aloud.

"And that is where all of you come in. You may be wondering why I have invited you all here today. You are of varying ranks, although most of you are officers. Some of you are in active service, although half of you are retired. You come from all branches of the Heer and the SS, and from all walks of life.

"All of you are active service veterans with at least three kills on your record."

 _A few south pacific tribals who shot back with arrows._

"All of you have survived confrontations with Captain Blaskowicz."

 _That explains the harsh reactions_

"All of you have lost friends and family to Captain Blaskowicz.

Jans whispered to him. "My cousin Wilmer was on the Ausmerzer."

"And all of you want revenge."

 _Damn right._

"To be blunt, most of you are cripples. It is neither a selling point nor an issue for your recruitment to this project, I assure you."

The screen switched images to show an advanced armor configuration that Heydrich did not recognize. It was standard SS black, with standard markings, but it was somehow simultaneously bulkier and sleeker than standard combat armor. The faceplate was mechanical and angular, giving the vague appearance of a snarling face, with red-shaded slits in the place of eyes. It had a bulbous pack, with visible tanks of some liquid. Carapace plating covered the torso and the limbs with a chained skirting over the belly, giving the impression of a Tuetonic knight's armor. In the joints were the faintest hint of hydraulics.

"After months of research, and inspiration from the late General Strasse's journals, we have developed a new pattern of powered combat armor. We have dubbed this iteration Mjolnir Mk 4, and it is currently the most powerful weapons system we have at the moment. It's fusion pack is rated for human exposure and active use for at least five years, its hydraulic systems can magnify human strength ten times. It can keep a pilot self-contained for its entire service life, and its nervous system interlink acts twice as fast as average human reaction time. It attaches directly to your brain stem, which is why physical ailments are of no concern.

"When we combine this armor, your numbers, and determination, we will finally catch Terror Billy and put him down for good. It is too late to keep him from being a symbol to other terrorists, but at the absolute least we can make certain that he himself cannot kill another brave soldier of the Reich."

 _Or a retired soldier, or a police officer, or a civilian, or a father._

"Now, I can already predict what you are going to say next, given that you all have faced him. The hardest part in fighting Blaskowicz is knowing where he is going to show his face next. Well, this time we know exactly where he is going to be next."

General Vogel smiled for the first time, and it sent a chill down Heydrich's spine, even the half he could no longer feel. He didn't like that smile. It felt like something a person only sees when they are on the wrong end of a pistol- or a scalpel.

"Are any of you Oxford men?"


	16. The Library

**The Library**

"I remember your father" Anya noted over the radio, her voice translating softly over the surprisingly quiet sound of the helicopter. "He gave several guest lectures in one of my classes."

"And?" Jones asked.

"He… certainly knew what he was talking about."

"But it was hard to learn from what he was saying over all of the arrogant, boring droning of his voice."

She laughed "I'll just say I am glad I didn't get into Oxford. To take him as a full-time professor… ugh."

"Hey, he would have loved to teach you. He's not too accepting of educated women, but any sixteen year old on their way to a doctorate in archeology would earn his respect in an instant." _He'd respect any archeologist who didn't wait until after fighting in a war to enter college._ "He would have insisted on mentoring you personally."

"He tried to." She shivered. "I get more nightmares from that than from when they captured my William."

"He's the professor that every college student prays they don't get, but he's my father, and I want him back."

"What makes you think he's even still alive?" Blaskowicz asked from the seat next to him. "Let alone still at Oxford university?"

"You forget that I was the curator of the largest and most prestigious museum in Germany," Jones replied. "I had to communicate with universities all over the world to get sources and transcripts. Even if we were bullshitting our way through half of it, we had to source our propaganda from somewhere. It helps to add layers to the lies; it will make it harder for people in the future to question anything the Reich tells them.

"Every correspondence I have ever received from Oxford has been marked with the same seal: Doctor Henry Walton Jones sr., chief librarian. I don't know how they got him to comply with Nazi commands to burn books, but he is definitely still alive and employed as the chief librarian, at least as of last month. I always wanted to make a visit to Oxford in person, just to see how he is holding up, but the letters have been enough for the last few years."

"So why haven't you?" Anya asked. "He _is_ your father."

"Knowing him, I could be standing in dress uniform next to Hitler himself and he would shout 'Junior' the second he saw me."

He grinned. "But, since we've done away with the whole pretense altogether, I have no excuse _not_ to check up on him right away."

Fergus leaned over from the pilot's seat. "We're nearing the drop point, just in front of the Oxford library building. Get ready."

"On it." Blaskowicz said, grabbing his sturmgewehr. He turned to Jones. "Are you sure you want to start this loud?"

"Oh, right, the two of us fugitives are going to politely walk into the library, safely and calmly enter the chief librarian's office, kidnap him, and then walk out as if everything is fine."

Blaskowicz frowned. "Well, when you put it that way…"

"I respect the attempt, but I wouldn't have come with you even if Vogel hadn't gotten to me first. _Especially_ if Vogel hadn't gotten to me first. And I could not have stopped you, but it would not have been as simple as slinging me over your shoulder and walking out the front door. You are the best man on Earth when it comes to going in hot." He took out his pistol and cocked it. "So let's go in hot."

W+J

Heydrich held the locket in his glove. He carefully twirled it between his fingers, testing the precision of the neural link. The pain in the base of his skull was still there after three days; the doctor had lied about it being temporary. He didn't mind it. He could walk again.

"I hope this headache goes away soon, or the first man I'll kill with this armor will be that damn lying doctor."

 _Ah Jans, never change._

The two of them, as well as the ten other men from the meeting, were sitting in the back of an enlarged half-track. They had all accepted Vogel's offer, and they had all been fitted with Mjolnir battle plate.

Since they were all decorated combat veterans, Vogel argued, they could be immediately fitted with the armor and given an extremely brief training regiment on how to use it. Heydrich understood that time was of the essence, but he was irritated at the General's naivety. He had no idea how someone as incompetent at the art of war as him ever managed to get past officer school, let alone rise to command the paranormal division of the SS.

"A family heirloom?" Major General Steer asked from next to him. Heydrich hadn't noticed he was being watched.

"Yeah." He opened it. "A picture of my family. My mother, my father, my sister and I."

Steer looked at it. "Don't mind me asking, but your father looks nothing like you."

 _Rude._ "He is… was… my step-father. My real father fought for the Americans in the war. He died back in '46."

"Oh."

"We lived in New Jersey, near New York. Within the blast zone of the bomb. We were out of town at the time, but we had no where to go during the occupation. Alfred was always there for us, he took care of my mom and I, gave us a home. Treated me like his own son." He closed the locket. "And now he's gone."

"To _Him_?" he asked.

"Yes."

There were several seconds of silence before Steer spoke again.

"It was my brother."

"Who?" Heydrich asked.

"We all lost people to _him_ , remember? My brother was on the Moon base."

"My father was at Eisenwald Prison." A soldier spoke up.

"My sister was a clerk at General Strasse's compound," said another.

"Irene Engel was my mother."

Heydrich, shocked, looked at Jans. "Your mother?"

Jans nodded. "She was so disappointed in me for wanting to join the SS-Seelandkorp. 'No son of mine is joining naval forces like a pansy! If he does, he'll lose the name Engel and I'll call him Jans!' she said." He looked down. "That was the last thing she ever said to me. She wouldn't even respond to my letters."

"So… during the presentation…"

"I watched him butcher my mother." Jans nodded.

"Wait, you said during the presentation that it was your cousin, or your brother or something."

Jans averted eye contact. "What was I supposed to do, drop that bombshell on you right there? 'Oh by the way we just watched a video of my mother getting butchered now shut up and wait for an explanation later.' Yeah, that would have went well."

"I don't appreciate my men lying to me, Unterscharführer." Jans cringed slightly at being called by his rank. "But I understand it."

"We have all lost people to Captain Blaskowicz," he said, speaking to the team, "this man has killed thousands of fathers, brothers, sisters, and mothers. He has left a trail of death and destruction, and countless broken families in his wake.

"Let's do it," he pocketed his locket, "for them."

W+J

Jones tightened his grip, his electro-whip held firmly in his mechanical hand. Set Roth, inspired by the report of his escape, had fashioned the weapon overnight. As he pulled, an electrical current, fed by his hand's power source, extended through the metal and into the guard whose neck it was wrapped around. As the guard's burned corpse fell to the floor, Jones detached it and, with an experienced flick of his arm, recalled it into the spool within his prosthetic wrist.

"All clear on this end Colonel Jones," Blaskowicz spoke through the radio.

The two men had encountered stiff resistance from the standard campus security who, although intended only to deal with thought criminals and the occasional student protest, were well armed with SMGs and riot armor. It was difficult to deal with them, as they seemed not to care for the dozens of students caught in the crossfire. Blaskowicz had stayed to clear the guard station and the main foyer as Jones searched for the chief librarian's office.

Jones keyed his earpiece. "The hallway is clear as well."

A second later, he added, "And don't call me Colonel Jones."

"Your orders, Dr. Jones."

He groaned.

"That's worse. I don't know how you made it worse."

Anya interjected. "Well, what do you want us to call you, since it's apparently so important to argue in the middle of a mission?"

"Indy. Indiana Jones."

"Fine by me." Blaskowicz replied.

Indy checked the office doors, and he checked them again. The library complex was familiar to him, and yet different. The Nazis had respected Oxford's architecture and had only commenced relatively minor renovations, and yet he could have sworn that the office in front of him, labeled 'pre-Nietzsche Germanic poetry,' was the chief librarian's office.

"Anya, I'm turned around. Where does the visitor's guide say his office should be?"

"Hold on, I'm looking… Huh, that's strange. It says it is right in the middle of one of the separate, smaller library halls. Right under it, it seems."

"Probably a mistake… and let me guess, the hall of medieval history?"

"Yes, that's the one."

Indy grinned. "Alright, its just a few corners away. Hey Blaskowicz, please cover me. Make sure whatever they send to stop us gets its ass kicked."

"Rodger."

W+J

The half-track came to a stop in the parking lot outside of the library. Vogel told them that they were to enter the library, give their credentials to the local security, and then secure the area and act as security until _he_ shows up.

It was a good trap, one that was set up ahead of time instead of on-the-fly like back at the museum. For the first time in the long fight against these terrorists, they would not be reacting to them, they would be the ones doing the panicked last-minute reevaluation.

That was the plan, at least.

As Heydrich stepped out of the half-track behind the rest of his team, viewing the library through the red tint of his helmet lenses, his foot slid slightly across the ground. He looked down and saw several spent shell casings of a caliber found only in standard issue Sturmgewehr.

"We have a problem," he sounded through their local com-net. " _He's_ already here."


	17. The Librarian

**The Librarian**

The twelve men in power armor entered the library through the front doors, the glass broken from gunfire. In the entryway laid ten corpses; three guards and seven students.

"Oh god, he's started killing civies directly now," one of the men gasped.

"No," Jans replied, kneeling to examine one of the bodies. "These civilians were shot from behind by SMGs, the guards were shot from the front by STGs. The guards shot them in the crossfire."

"The blood's still on his hands," one of the men spat.

"The blood's still warm."

"Keep your eyes open," Heydrich said. "He could be anywh…"

A burst of machine gun fire interrupted him, the rapid banging deafening if not for sound repressors in his helm. Seven rounds, intended for his chest and head, bounced harmlessly off an amber forcefield projected in a bubble surrounding him. He turned to face the gunman calmly, noting his shield power had barely fallen to 75%. Standing in the archway leading from the entryway to the main library was Colonel Blaskowicz, Sturmgewehr in hand, looking pissed at having his kill stolen the by arcane technology.

Heydrich fired his weapon, a heavy laser, as he shouted the command: "Enemy in sight! Open fire!"

All twelve heavy lasers dispensed their beams directly at the terrorist, but he was too fast for them to catch. He quickly dodged behind a wall as he threw a tesla grenade at the soldiers. Steer, acting quickly, shot it in mid-air, causing it to detonate at a safe distance.

"Not bad, for a cyclopse." Jans quipped.

"There are only three entrances to this library" Steer responded, ignoring Jans. "This one, and two side entrances. The vents are old, eight inches across and filled with fans and dust."

Heydrich quickly formulated a plan of attack. "Steer, you take three men and head to the left entrance. Jans, you take three and go to the right. The rest stay here with me, and at my signal we flush him out like game. MOVE OUT!"

The men nodded and spit into teams. As Jans was about to leave, Heydrich grabbed his shoulder. "Good luck, friend."

W+J

"Bravo team in position," Steer reported.

Heydrich waited.

"Charlie team in position," Jans reported.

"Alright, enter the library. Remember your corners. Hold the entrances, and Alpha team will flush him to you."

"Rodger."

"Can do."

Heydrich and his three men passed through the archway, checking the corners as they went. Long rows of bookshelves, aligned along their viewpoint, stretched through the library. Between them and the shelves were rows of study desks, chairs, and the like, and directly to their right was a librarian's desk. One of the men checked behind it, and reported it clear.

"Alpha position is clear," Heydrich reported.

"Charlie position is clear," Jans reported.

Heydrich paused.

"Bravo team, report."

Silence.

"Bravo team, report!"

A voice answered him; he did not recognize it. It was stern, smooth, and spoke with a horrible American accent.

"Bravo team is gone, and soon so will you."

Heydrich quickly signaled his wingmen and ran to his left, towards Bravo team, not bothering to respond to the terrorist and give him any notice.

"You'll pay for killing her! I'll kill you!" Jans shouted over the coms.

"Negative, Charlie. Hold position. Alpha will take care of him."

"America's going to take you care," _he_ spoke.

Heydrich and his men finally rounded the last shelf, and stopped. Bravo team lay before them, all missing their heads.

"I gambled on it and won. Those fancy shields of yours? Get close enough and you can just slice the throat."

The soldier to Heydrich's right had his shield light up with laser fire. Heydrich looked up and saw _him_ on top of the shelf, firing one of his team's heavy lasers from above. All four of them opened fire, but he dropped on the other side of the shelf before they could land their marks.

Suddenly, bullets sounded from behind the shelf, and the soldier whose shield had just fallen dropped to the ground, his head pulverized within his helmet.

"Hm, looks like guns work just fine as well."

Heydrich fired the laser in a sweeping arch along the bookshelf, burning a row of books in a mad attempt to burn the man. As they crumbled to dusk, _he_ was nowhere in sight.

"Do you Nazis ever read books, or just burn them?"

Another man, standing close to the shelf to peer through, is quickly pulled to the ground, an arm hacking at his body with a hatchet, moving with force yet too slow to trigger the shield. Heydrich and the last man opened fire on the shadow and their comrade, burning him to dust as the shadow retreated unharmed.

"Of course you don't read, otherwise you wouldn't be Nazis to begin with."

Heydrich and the last man stepped away from the shelves, lasers at the ready. Heydrich saw a disturbance along the far edge and fired at it. He realized all too late that it was a tesla grenade, and it detonated right between him and the other man. The blast knocked his shields down and sent him reeling. He heard more gun shots as the soldier at his side fell to the ground.

Suddenly, Jans shouted through the coms. "God damn you, you fucking demon, get your hands off of Heydrich!"

Heydrich ran towards the phantom, dropping the empty laser and pulling his handgun. He had it leveled, aimed at the shadows, when the tall and heavy bookshelf turned over, collapsing on his unshielded armor.

W+J

"Junior! I am so glad to see you!"

That was his father's voice alright, but he couldn't see where it came from. He was in a small private library, and yet he could not place the voice.

"It has been such a long time, you really should have visited sooner."

"Dad? Where are you?"

"Up and to your right, junior."

Indy followed the direction, and saw a CCTV camera placed in the corner.

"I'm in my private office at the moment, but I can see you through the security system and speak through the intercom."

Indy was surprised that his own father could pick up on computer techno-jargon faster than he could, but the man was very resourceful.

"Well, I am here to get you out of this lousy mess, so could you please direct me to your office?"

"Oh, well I would get out if I bloody could, but the exit controls are locked right now."

"What do you mean locked?"

"It seems that someone has triggered the security system, and the emergency intrusion protocols lock me in place."

Indy heard a mechanical beeping, and turned to see a small robot, in the shape of a dog-sized daddy long legs, clambering along a book shelf. As it saw him, the mechanical eye narrowed, and then the robot screeched as it jumped at him. He pulled his pistol and fired at it, breaking its body to pieces.

"Well don't shoot the librarians, or you'll make yourself look like an intruder!"

"I am an intruder, dad, I'm here to get you- remember?"

"Oh, quite right. I'll turn them off." His father mumbled around through the speaker for several seconds, then stopped. "That function seems to be offline as well. You will have to trigger the manual overrides. There are four panels, one in each corner. You should be next to one now."

Indy saw the panel, and opened it to a keypad. "Okay, I see it. What's the password?"

"Oh, its... its…"

"What is it?"

A pause.

"Blast! I can't say the password through this system. I will have to give it to you through a question."

Another spider jumped towards Indy, biting at his mechanical hand. He punched it at the wall, shattering it. "Hurry."

"When the holy power of the Vatican comes to question, some turn to this city seeking papal guidance."

a-v-i-g-n-o-n

A light flashes red.

"It is case sensitive.

A-v-i-g-n-o-n

The light held green.

Indy turned to see two robots charging at him. He grappled one with his whip and swung it into the other, both crumbling into metal heaps. He sprinted to the next one and opened the panel, keeping his eye out for more librarians.

"The title worn by the beloved king of the third crusade."

L-i-o-n-h-e-a-r-t

The light held green.

Indy cried in pain as metal legs cut into his shoulders and his sides. He quickly fired his pistol blindly behind him, striking its central core and sending it flying. Another jumped from above, and Indy caught it with his metal arm. He threw it at a third robot crawling along the ground and ran to the third corner. Two librarians met him, and he fired his pistol at both. The first fell, but his gun clicked at the second. He tossed it to the side and kicked the robot away, breaking it against the wall. He opened the third panel.

"The second trial one must face on the path to the Holy Grail."

L-e-h-o-v-a

The light blinked red.

Another librarian wrapped itself around Indy's leg, and he kneed it into a bookshelf.

"Sorry, no idea why I spelled it in German."

J-e-h-o-v-a-h

The light held green.

Indy turned once more. The ground was covered in librarians, and several clung to the walls and the ceiling.

"There shouldn't be any more than that, if that helps."

Indy lunged at the nearest bookshelf, and volumes fell asunder as the heavy wooden fram lurched forwards. It fell on the librarians, squishing many of them. Many still began to pull themselves from between the cracks. He ran forwards, ignoring them as their spikes jabbed at him. Three jumped from the walls, and he ignored them as they held his arms. He opened the third panel.

"And this one is the one thing I love the most."

Indy cried. "I don't know what the hell you love. Even before the war, for my entire life even, you never bothered to spend any time with me. What is the answer, history?" He cried in pain as a pincer jabbed through the skin of his thigh."

"When was the last time I referred to you as 'Junior?'"

I-n-d-i-a-n-a

The light held green.

The robots clinging to Indy all fell limp at once, as if someone had cut their puppet strings.

"Ah, I'm in control again. Deactivating the librarians."

Indy brushed himself off and retrieved his pistol. He removed the empty magazine removed the spare from his belt and loaded it. He cocked the action and returned it to his holster.

"Alright, coming on up."

An ornate Persian rug at the center of the library, bulled by hidden robotic gears, rolled itself up and away. Beneath where it was, a metal sphincter opened, revealing a column beneath it. Indy gasped in horror as it rose from the floor, immediately recognizing its purpose from his brief time working alongside General Strasse.

The column rotated, bringing a small glass tank into view, where his father's brain was suspended in a saline tank, wires and tubes stringing through his cerebral cortex and into the machinery.

"Ah, It is so good to finally see you in person again, or so to speak."


End file.
